I am October, Ohio.

I am October’s colors, 

My skin the reflection 

Of bruised peaches 

And burnt honey. 

I stick to all things green, 

Suckling away at their breast, 

Until only a shriveled husk remains, 

Clinging onto skeleton branches, 

Begging the wind to let them be. 

My winds are not so kind

To carry any calls for help, 

Even if it would be

In my self-interest. 

I am October; 

Winters harlot,

Summers whore. 

I welcome September 

With amber whispers, 

While Death waits in the kitchen

For crumpets and tea. 

Before November arrives, 

I will have suffocated 

Every cul-de-sac’s front yard 

With the flesh of ancient oaks, 

And laugh with the children

As they pile up the refuse skin

To play in. 

I am October; 

A fire without heat, 

Burning the sunset past the horizon, 

Leaving life tinged 

The shallow shade

Of a red run dry. 

I am October, 

Because we are the same; 

We are only beautiful 

When we are dying.