Autumn

Autumn

A bite of apple pie

hot cider with cinnamon

steaming fog

from the cat mug

salted caramel

on the tongue

Autumn’s perfume

triggers my memory

it is said that scent

awakens capsules

of the past

but a song

transports you

to another world

real or imaginary

where I pull

strings of stories

gone

making their escape

from my brain

with people

who tugged at my heart

the song is a dance

of the past

a place

where colors

were brighter

van Gogh-vivid

intentions

more innocent

some may make

it to the page

as I drive past

the church green

a sea of orange

a field of giant

pumpkins for sale

and wonder if

I’ll recall

all the details

Mónica Fernandes, 10/28/2024