Crisp air carries wings

Thin as paper, the color of sunflowers

To land with spindly legs

On a yellow-tinged leaf

That will soon fall and crunch

Among others on the ground.

Perched high on a tree, next to friends

Hidden in cocoons, looking down

Into a secret garden that is tucked

Away between tall buildings on all sides.

Laid out on a quilt underneath

The yellowed tree, you sit

And you sip on cider, warm

And sweet, a reminder of a home

That is not a house —

Far from under the tree.

Sit still and sip.

The leaves are yellow,

The sun sets golden earlier

And earlier, but there is a warmth

That still drifts in the air,

Swirling with the steam rising

From the confines of your cup.

Surrounded by a world of gold,

yet inside is gray.

The days that abound

Are supposed to be golden-

That's what you were told.

But still, you sit and sip with thoughts

Of cloudy days and warm

Winter nights by a fireplace

With the people that make a house

The home you miss.