Autumn
Autumn arrives without knocking on the door.
One morning the road is still warm,
but the wind has changed its mind.
It moves through the open bedroom window,
carrying the smell of rain and fallen leaves.
The sunlight reaches the floor a little later.
I pull my jumper over my cold hands
and watch the trees outside the house.
Yesterday they looked as green as summer.
Today a few small branches shine with gold,
as though someone lit a quiet fire there.
I walk along the road before the shops open.
The pavement is covered in scattered leaves,
red near the wall and yellow by the gate.
Some are crisp enough to break beneath my shoes.
Others are soft from rain during the night.
A bus passes, stirring leaves into circles,
and for a moment they seem to dance.
Then they settle around the empty bus stop,
waiting for something they cannot name.
Not every beautiful thing stays in place.
Across the street, a woman sweeps her steps.
She gathers brown leaves into one tall pile.
The wind lifts half of them behind her.
She looks at the sky and starts laughing.
I help her catch the leaves by the wall.
Our hands grow cold, but we keep talking.
She says this happens every single year,
and every year she tries to win.
I tell her the trees have better plans.
She offers me an apple from her garden,
small and marked, with a sweet sharp taste.
It feels like autumn held inside my hand.
The market is beginning to wake up.
Boxes of pears stand beside fresh carrots.
There are pumpkins resting on wooden tables,
and bunches of flowers wrapped in brown paper.
A baker opens his door to the street.
Warm bread sends its smell into the air.
Someone carries cinnamon buns through the crowd.
The sound of coins mixes with cheerful voices.
I buy two apples and a loaf of bread,
then stand beneath the old market clock.
The wind is cold against my cheeks,
but the bread warms my fingers through the bag.
I remember autumn when I was younger.
We gathered chestnuts beneath the schoolyard trees,
searching among leaves for the smoothest ones.
We put them in our coat pockets,
like treasure we could never spend.
Our teacher asked us to draw the trees.
I used every brown and orange pencil,
then asked to borrow a brighter red.
I thought the leaves were changing for us,
to make the school day more exciting.
I had not learned how much work
it takes for a tree to let go.
My grandmother knew the names of birds.
She could hear one call across the garden
and tell me where it liked to hide.
In autumn she watched the sky carefully.
She said some birds were leaving for warmth,
and others would remain through the cold.
I asked why they did not all stay.
She told me every creature knows something
different about the place it calls home.
Then she filled a bowl with fallen apples
and cut away the bruised parts gently.
Nothing good had to be perfect first.
At home I put the apples on the table.
One rolls against an old photograph frame.
There she is, laughing in her garden,
with mud on her knees and sunlight behind her.
I have not heard her voice in years.
Some days that sadness feels very far away.
Other days it sits beside my morning tea.
I touch the glass but say nothing.
Outside, leaves keep falling past the window.
I used to wish I could stop them.
Now I know holding on too tightly
can hurt more than the falling itself.
By afternoon the sky grows heavy and grey.
Rain taps softly against the kitchen window.
The first drops leave dark spots on stone.
Soon the whole street shines with water.
Cars move slowly through the shallow puddles.
A child in red boots jumps through one.
Her father calls for her to be careful.
She jumps again, and both of them laugh.
The rain has a steady, patient sound.
I make tea and sit near the window,
watching the world become clean and blurred.
There is comfort in a day without hurry.
When the clouds open, I go to the park.
The paths are wet, and the benches shine.
A dog runs through a mountain of leaves,
throwing them across the grass with joy.
Its owner calls, but does not sound angry.
Two friends share chips from a paper tray.
They talk about work and missed trains.
A little boy holds a bright yellow leaf
against the blue sleeve of his coat.
He shows it proudly to everyone nearby.
For him the whole season fits there,
in one small thing he chose to keep.
The pond reflects a broken piece of sky.
Ducks move across it without making much noise.
Behind them the water closes every line.
I sit and listen to the branches move.
Some leaves fall straight into the pond.
Others turn slowly, caught by the breeze.
I think about plans that never happened,
about promises I could not quite keep,
and roads I took before I understood them.
The water does not ask me why.
It makes room for every falling leaf,
then carries each one where it can.
There is a path behind the playground
that leads towards a row of old trees.
Their roots rise through the ground like steps.
I used to climb those steps as a child.
Now I walk slowly, watching where I stand.
A squirrel runs above me with an acorn.
I hear it moving through dry branches.
It is gathering what it needs for later,
not worrying that the leaves are turning.
I stop to watch until it disappears.
Perhaps preparing for change can be gentle.
Perhaps fear does not have to lead.
The days grow shorter without asking permission.
The shop lights come on before I return.
Windows shine across the darkening street.
Inside them, families begin their evening meals.
I smell onions cooking in a nearby kitchen,
then wood smoke drifting from a distant fire.
There is a softness to these early nights.
People draw their curtains and turn on lamps.
The world outside seems bigger and quieter.
I carry my bread beneath one arm
and walk towards the familiar yellow light
that waits for me above my own door.
On Saturday I visit the community garden.
We pull the last tomatoes from their vines.
Some are green, and some are splitting open.
We wash the soil from our hands
under water that feels almost like ice.
An older man shows us where to plant bulbs.
He says we will not see them for months.
A girl asks whether they might forget to grow.
He smiles and gives her a small spade.
We bury the bulbs beneath the dark soil,
trusting a future no one can yet see.
Hope sometimes looks like an empty patch.
We share soup in the little garden shed.
Its windows shake whenever the wind rises.
Someone has brought bread and homemade jam.
Someone else brings stories from the summer.
We listen to a woman describe her holiday,
then to a man speaking about his new job.
There are things each person carries quietly,
small worries that do not show on faces.
Still, we pass bowls around the wooden table.
Outside, rain begins again on the roof.
It makes a sound like thousands of footsteps.
Inside, nobody needs to rush away.
October gives us mornings bright with frost.
The grass is white beside the road.
I hear the crunch beneath my shoes.
My breath appears before me, then fades.
For one moment I feel like a child,
trying to catch the clouds leaving my mouth.
The sun rises over the empty football field,
turning every frozen blade into a spark.
Cold has not taken the beauty away.
It has simply made it look different.
I pull my sleeves down over my hands
and walk more slowly through the light.
Some evenings I make a meal from leftovers.
Carrots, onions, potatoes, and yesterday's bread.
I stir the pot and open the window
just enough to hear the rain outside.
I remember my grandmother doing the same.
She never measured anything with great care.
A little of this, then more of that.
She tasted the soup and made it better.
I follow what I can remember now,
and smile when it tastes almost right.
Even memory changes, but love can remain.
One windy night a branch strikes the glass.
I wake and listen to the house settling.
The world sounds restless beyond the walls.
In the morning the garden is a mess.
Leaves cover the steps and block the drain.
A flowerpot lies sideways near the fence.
I lift it, sweep the path, clear the water.
The work is small, but it matters.
Not everything that breaks is a disaster.
Some things only need a patient hand.
I leave the strongest leaves where they lie,
to cover the earth against the cold.
By November, many branches stand almost bare.
Their dark shapes reach into the pale sky.
There is no hiding the nests now,
or the places where old branches have grown crooked.
I notice how beautiful their shapes can be,
without the colours that once covered them.
The trees have lost what they were wearing,
but they have not lost what they are.
I stand below them as evening settles.
The wind moves freely through their arms.
I wonder what I could put down
and still remain myself when morning comes.
I write a letter I may never send.
I tell my grandmother about the garden,
about the little girl planting spring bulbs,
and the woman laughing at the stubborn wind.
I tell her I still waste good apples
when I forget them at the back of cupboards.
I tell her I am trying to learn
how to keep love without keeping everything.
Then I fold the paper into a drawer.
It does not fix the empty chair,
but something in my chest feels lighter.
Some goodbyes continue teaching us for years.
Autumn ends slowly, not all at once.
One last leaf holds to the highest branch.
The morning sky is clear and cold.
A robin sings somewhere behind the fence.
I stand outside with both hands open,
feeling the wind pass between my fingers.
I cannot hold the colours in place,
or ask the light to stay longer.
I can gather warmth and share it.
I can carry memories into darker days.
And when the last gold leaf lets go,
I can trust the tree is still alive.
