The melancholy of almost autumn.
the way the roots drop in
the way the sap descends
the way the leaves release.
the storms
and the internal things they brew.
the light, diminishing
the mist
the cooling air
the wind, the crisp
the apples red and ripe
the last color of blood on the earth
before the brown humbles us all.
Words: The Wild Matryoshka 🪆
Image: Robbie Porter
Tree Weaver 