Autumn Keeps Kissing the Apples Right Off My Cheeks

when my meander dwindles, tiny tingles linger . . .

Margie Willis

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Image by Rebekka D from Pixabay

Faded variegated apple branches exhale
faint wavy mist drops radiate
hummingbird rushes in for a gingersnap sip
limbs scrub the stale summer air
whooshing in to wrap my long tresses
into gray swathes of psycho.

Vines are plump and punctuated by mauve
harvesters rumble a tightwire act
fondling juicy orbs of potential
full trailers rattle, ready for crush
piquant sips of never-meant-to-be
moisten the apples of my cheeks.

Cluster of chickadees harken to childhood
hunkering down fond trails of oblivious bliss
scampering by invisible bleached bones
unaware of so much that’s out there
exalting in the pull of a lodestone
leaving my rearview mirror a shambles.

Eyelids harbor a series of vampish tattoos
Lady Sycamore remains my lifelong torch
persimmon magic shining into corners
playing hopscotch with sensory synapses
craving the startle of fresh air
letting go becomes my way of life.

Remember ruddy eucalyptus nights
squirting cognac zingers from a bota bag
burning in a beeline down the gullet
feeling hooked like a fish
on an irresistible lure
under the psychedelic midnight moon.

The tricky sensations of being duped
need not spoil one’s delight in chimera
the futility of trying to nail life down
questioning . . . regretting . . . blaming
let love craft candles lighten the bite
nothing’s more fleeting than closure.

One person’s closure is…

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