Autumn colors weep in reverence

at what’s through the yawning door.

Falling into a decrescendo of warmth

to remind themselves of their

glowing sticky days of summer.

And in the hands of patience,

once they feel the soft, gentle winds of time,

they give in.

Soaring

Billowingly,

into paths yet ventured.

But, always revered.

Through the fly-wandering yawning door,

and into the welcoming hug of a warm towel

after a long bath.

With tiny hands of stray strings of cotton

reaching as far as they can

over meadows of skin

trying to envelope them further and further

into its own comforting heart.

All the way through the hand-fillingly wide

yawning door

these colors fly.

Into the arms of a new light,

basking blindly in its blanketing embrace,

waiting for eyes to adjust.

They’re ready.

With an open lidded silence,

to feel exciting new ways the light

will bounce across their thoughts.

Ready.

With a dogmatic vocalization of gratitude

singing pensively across

enlightened still waters.

Creating tiny waves among its

tepid surface,

with droplet words of thanks.

That thank for

the propensity to realize

what new colors

this light

has endowed them to become.