October in Missouri

The light feels softer in autumn,
scattered like cinnamon dust,
stuck to the corners of the sidewalks like maple sap.

nostalgia seeps through stomata—
soaks the soul through
then wrings it out to dry—
sucks the green from the leaves,
drinks the life from the grass;

and something fresh takes its place.
brisk and blustery,
mystic and melancholy,
curtained in shades of whiskey-amber
that only ever grace Missouri treetops.

the air gets crisp,
cuts through the heatwaves,
leaves the tang of cider in its wake.

it’s bittersweet, October—
the clarity that only comes with a year’s
dying exhale.