autumn wakes me earlier than i wish it would.
september's end is crunchy underfoot, though still warm, the summer gone without a proper goodbye. i open the house to the morning light and streaks of cardinal, sounds of sparrow. i feed the cat, turn on the sound of cellos. there are ballerinas on the television, twirling in silence. outside a small autumn breeze tries its wings, learning to fly, whooshing small leaves from the trees. the sun is the color of what will be.
i am writing again, in tiny sentences, baby verses, scared of the truth, but owning nothing else.
trying my own wings again.