In autumn.

Leaf studs x 3

In autumn I urge to write poetry, even though that’s not what I do.
The words are there yet they’re carried away with the wind that nudges each leaf off their tree.
In autumn I want to scream at the trees, how do you say no to our demands for longer lush green summers, how do you do that so effortlessly, unapologetically and then simply rest.
In autumn I want to tend to my small patch of land, hands in the cool soil, preparing her for next years bounty. Apologising to each creature I disturb. Shifting slugs and snails to less treacherous spots, despite knowing they’ll be devouring next summers basil I so foolishly try to¬†grow.
In autumn I want to be immersed in books, silent evenings, fictional, magical tales of bravery and spirit.
In autumn I want to taste the softness of apples against the tang of blackberries. To let their magnificent simmering scents fill every pore whilst I prepare the roughness of the crumble.
In autumn I want to be close to my oldest friends. I hate that I’m too far to just pop in for a cuppa.
I can’t describe friendships like I can autumn. The companionship is beyond words that I know. I think a good friend treats you like a tree. They stay with you while you are growing, blossoming, blooming, shedding, wilting, or doing nothing at all. They move through the seasons with you.
And you with them.