I could fall in love in autumn. And have a time or two. Something about the sweet luminosity of it, makes me sway into it, swoon into yellows that still hold light and heat, the postcards of summer. Perhaps it is the fleeting nature that calls out to be worshiped now. There is no later in autumn. Later is barren trees, and shriveled leaves, crunching as old bones beneath my feet. There is only now, the cry to love in this moment, in case there is no tomorrow. I like the transient feeling of it, the presentness, the demands it makes of me, absorbing my attention like new love.

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