I have survived another summer.
I believe I deserve some perks
of sighting exclusive brittle skies and
extra candies of courage you
keep in your side pockets.
I adore you,
for not only being my month
but for the audacity of making
mortal surroundings around change
and to show their true colors.
Leaves fall and my fingers
camp around the handle
of a tea mug placing my bulky
thoughts on a window sill.
My poetries rhyme with
an amber view of art outside
with an orange blanket to
mourn the dead leaves.
You disclose unsullied hope
like freshly painted graffiti walls.
And I being an ardent art lover
quickly buy your bouquet of transformation.
A spectacular change I try
to stretch in my own work.
I know what a horrible
businesswoman I would make of myself.
Do I want to sell tales
and keep buying the inspiration?
Being the last third in number
you make me anxious.
Like those tragic stories of which
the end I know but watch it to
grieve their doomed sunsets before time.
And I wish not to dim blur before time,
before meeting you.
There is a bridge I cross
from January to September
praying to keep my sunsets
and moonrises sharp till
October arrives.
Probably, the only Goodbye I ever
want to bid is in the times of
thousands pumpkins, ghosts
and romances of October eve(s).
Your brownish daylight makes me
hop on a carrier to feed wanderlust.
A flaming-red dream teases and
starts dancing on the edges of my uneasiness.
Like lemon juice dominating
on the crunchy sides of my tongue
twitching away my sad pages,
and reviving my senses.
You are those Friday Nights
I don’t ever want to die away.
Beginning and ending of gold moments.
Just like you!
A picture-perfect month,
I welcome you, knowing
I survived another summer
and will do so again
because
Dear October,
your crisp beauty makes me believe in Magic.