Inès Montel

Contributor

It’s a September evening.
We have hidden ourselves in earnest
From the icy autumn wind.
Covered in furs and spandex,
our skin chokes on sweat
celebrating the warmth it can get.
    Hot beverage burns
    our tongues.
    And we forget
    the threatening cold
    that harassed us
    not long ago.

I left my heart
in the summer’s breeze.
And fear
for what’s to come,
once the leaves fall
to the ground.
As winter rots
my bones undone,
autumn serves
as a warning.

    In November,
    the wailing of the morning,
    like a banshee
    washed up on the shore
    of the east coast,
    caresses our ears with a soft,
    folkloric melody
    sang three hundred years ago.

We drive up the highway,
trees for miles ahead.
I grab your hand,
seeking comfort,
troubled by the promise
of snow.

    How beautiful it is
    when the seasons change.
    Regardless of what’s to come,
    there is always hope
    that spring will come again.