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.
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