A deep melancholy weaves itself inside a house leaking in
the first cool night of October.
It shadows the shades with daylight endings
with no thought to warmer, longer days.
It’s a passing of sorts, the dying season.
The year’s swan song in golden ochre and chestnut hurrahs.
Only this first cold day, a day where I search for socks
in a squeaky disused drawer overflowing unmatched orphans,
endings haunt the costumed furniture.
Almost Halloween, though none know it’s Halloween inside.
And only I know my mismatched socks stretch
hodge-podge high up my booted shins.
These and many others are fall’s secrets,
hidden under leaf piles and broken relationships.
I’m sorry to see some go. I’m sorry.
Only spring light may reveal a return on investing
in you all these years, but only if you count it out–
the season of us has dried up and gone.
In the gaze of the other 