Rest and Rot

Autumn whispers
a cool breath threaded
in the summer air.

It croons
softly
of rest
and rot

And gently caresses
the first leaves
from the weary
branches

Ripe apples
hang heavy
hints of red in the sunlight
that filters through the boughs
of the old apple tree

Bruising as they fall,
landing dull
against the soil

The cool wind
breathes soft tales
of the turning season
and lingers gently
against my skin —

the arms
of a welcoming ghost
that draws me ever nearer.