When Vermont Falls for You
When Vermont Falls for You
It begins like fire on the horizon,
a blaze of orange and crimson,
leaves spiraling down like lost memories,
the wind’s sharp bite weaving through.
I want you to feel this with me,
the way fall presses into our skin,
sitting on the wooden floors
of a house built by hands that knew time,
carving pumpkins, their guts spilling like secrets,
our laughter tucked into autumn's night air.
I want to smell Vermont fall in your hair,
my fingers tangled in it,
as you whisper, I missed you,
in a language I’m still learning for you,
each word drawing us closer.
The leaves fall, pulling us in deeper,
like the stitches of your flannel,
each thread a whisper of home, you,
grounded in every square of red and black.
Later, the scent of woodsmoke will wrap around us,
like it’s jealous of the way you hold me,
maple syrup still on our fingers,
its first taste sweet, clinging to your tongue.
You leave me open to the chill,
but more alive than before,
gathering the embers of this moment,
sharp and raw,
kissing the ache of letting you go home.
But after my fall,
we’ll live through your fall,
and maybe after,
we’ll find a fall of our own,
falling impossibly deeper,
into love, into us.
The Voice
November 2024
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