poetry on a friday

My Offering to Autumn

This is an offering to Autumn,
to the saddest season somehow filled with stoic hope,
to the slow fade of color from green to yellow
yellow to orange and orange back to red
and the final sigh before the final leap back to
the final resting place on the floor of the

world. This is an offering to the spoken words
on rain soaked mountain tops, the vows and promises
to a life waiting to be built; to the audience of trees,
rocks and clouds that bear witness. This is my offering,
burnt like sincere words on secret paper and scattered

into the air again, to the black of ash that won’t
wash off. To the sun that sleeps earlier and the
moon that sits in the sky to watch her slip into slumber;
to the brief and beautiful moments they share the sky together.
This is on oblation to the sound of snow geese in the darkness
and the struggle to find their contrast of white
on black; to the moonlight that shines upon them and to the
wonderment of where they travel to.


This is an offering to Autumn and this is my offering to
you. We will dance in the falling leaves and memorize
the sound of leaves crunching under our feet. These are alms to my favorite season and to the snow that hints at falling through the crisp air.
To the smell of wood stoves roaring back to life after the hibernation through the hottest months. To the sweaters that cover your

skin and the color that fades as the last of summer flees
from your cheeks. This is to the sacrifice that all trees
must make, the shedding of their skin to the skeleton
they hide below. To the bravery of the leaves that leap
without looking and fall without ever asking
why.

This is my offering to you. To the tea in your mug and
my hand in your hand as the chill returns. This is to how
the air smells before it snows and the way the scarves wrap
so perfectly around your neck. To the cold of my hands on the warm of your back and goosebumps that crawl down your back to rest on your legs. To the giant breath before the giant sleep through the winter of life. To the red that returns to your

nose and the gloves to your fingers. This is
to the way tears fall without hestiation when you face
the cold wind that Winter waits to breathe. To the first time my eyes found your eyes. To the home you have always been to me.

This is my offering to Autumn. This is my offering to you.

By Tyler Knott


Currently listening to: Colorblind by Counting Crows
xoxo
Caitlin
caitlinboyd72@gmail.com