October

The month when these old mountains spill their colors like secrets they can’t keep.

But the haints down in the hollers bellow, keeping me from sleep.

It’s the month that gently cradled me, my first breath soft and new

And the same one that took my momma’s when her time on earth was through.

And in this season of secret-spillin’, I see he’s come back around.

Grief’s here, unwelcomed, all unfurled; a grey patchwork on the ground.

It’s the month of pink skies over bonfires, the soft glow of dusk on hills.

And also one of little ribbons, painful realities, and pills. 

An endless parade of pink confetti litters everywhere.

I find it stuck up in my mind and woven through my cherished hair.

Each year I count more names I love now etched in stone or sky

And whisper prayers to ghosts in pink that never said goodbye.

October, she’s the month, of lovely candy corn delight.

But she’s also made of empty chairs and people not in sight.

The season’s all costumed up, with masks on every friend,

And it’s just right for those who hold truths too hard to comprehend.

October was once my favorite gal, but then she turned her head.

I wonder how many of her I’ll see, before I’m gone and dead.

This ole’ life has a way of carving stories deep into your heart. 

The love, the loss, the laughter — all of it, a work of art.

If I limp into November, I’ll be torn but tried and true,

Cause my October never comes without her beauty and her bruise.

Red leaves and radiation beams, birthdays and bereavement.

The grasp of summer, the pull of winter; nothing in agreement.

She’s everything I love all mixed with things I can’t forget,

A ghost and gentle goddess singing a bone-chilling duet.

This autumn air, I breathe her in— with fury, fear, and ache,

Still haunted by the reckonings my heart can’t seem to make.

But on the exhale of that breath, comes gratitude and glory—

She’s golden, gorgeous, glittering; the best part of the story.

It’s both mean and marvelous, this autumn life I live. 

It takes and gives in equal turns, and asks me to forgive.

This month is made of both things now,

The joyful smile, the furrowed brow.

My soul may cry autumnal tears, but still it hums with quiet wonder…

Despite it all, I’m just so glad to live to see Octobers.

-SWW