I. (“Piece”)ful on the Outside

One of life’s greatest litotes, 

downplayed perennially,

and neglected for its spice of life:

that is autumn.

The autumn hearth—a scenic conjunction between 

July’s stuffy nights and December’s pensive darkness.

The neighborhood comes alive, bustling block by block.

The little ones covet autumn, dulcetly binging the Halloween 

sweetness; going from door to door, dressed as their ingenuities

of hocus-pocus.

(Although, imagination runs jaded in the older kids.)

To them, Halloween no longer seems long enough.

To them, Halloween is a new challenge of dress-up.

Whether the dress-up would be the stay-home

senior, who anxiously finalizes his final applications,

or the looney freshman, who thinks he still has

all of high school ahead of him,

Halloween just has lost its touch.

The autumn hearth—a worthwhile moment to

reflect upon a bittersweet reality.

It used to be a cycle, an amusement park

of rides, where entrance was free, yet only to

those who were young.

Young enough to know that time shouldn't

affect one's plans.

Young enough to tinker with the asking

out of a certain someone to trick or treat with.

Young enough to be blind to the widening

discrepancy of one's peers as everyone grows up.

The older ones who don't care still reside

in the parameters of the park; they still treat 

school with the same frivolity that their

miniature companions once did, with the 

same unworldly soul, that would soon cost

them, they'd realize. Yet, they'll only realize

when it's too late.

Sleepless nights, qualms of isolation, sweaty palms.

These angsts affect the good and bad students alike.

Teachers, they seem ready to take a break too.

//

Just wait, however, for Christmas is near.

Vivaldi's tempo sweetens and dynamics flood

the gates with harmony.

The December months are for sleeping in, resting from

the pressure, the racing thoughts, the cold.

Recline, and sink into the mellow, cushiony seat that

is your family; appreciate the premier love they've sustained 

for all these tumultuous years. Be the one who thanks.

Though your gratitude may well be implicit. After all,

it's the thought that counts.

//

What is autumn?

It is a denouement, a fleeting school of anxiety, of rough

emotions; winter couldn't have come at a better time; each

year, the time comes clutch; each year, I sigh in relief.

It is the gate to a blooming Spring, where mothers stoop

and glorify their gardens of pastel; beautiful floral scents, the

pastimes of outdoor enjoyment; dashed with a scenic April rain.

It is the continuum of a fulfilling summer, where all pressures

are subdued for a heartfelt duration; where seniors are sent off

to college and where ceremonies commence around the world.

The autumn hearth—a place where all things come together; that is the "piece" of autumn.

II. Tortuous on the In

It is the passing of summer that commences

these autumn thoughts.

Wishes that had once been pocketed as

forgone indications of failure, suddenly revive

and manifest as heavy nightmares.

The chase to accomplish more before New Year's

worries the average high school junior, who for now

claims that he holds no regrets, but for the future

wishes that he'd done more.

The same high school junior who was once

a kid.

He implored for the coolest costume, sprinted

for the candy; he restlessly held his mom's arm,

and kept her chatting the whole way.

Now, he's tired.

Sleepless nights, qualms of isolation, sweaty palms.

Now, he needs a break.

Autumn showed me the climax; it showed me the fear.

It warned me that the next bit of my life was endlessly near.

It brought back memories of early-year regret, resolutions

that I never resolved; promises that I never fulfilled.

I write to autumn, not as a fan but as a follower:

Dear autumn, take me to the next year; then, when 

time comes, take me back again.