when autumn leaves

His name should have been October.

When he comes around,
the leaves
seem to fade into fiery hues,
like the sunsets that come too soon.
The air seems sharp enough to cut,
sending shivers down your spine with each second
that passes.
When he walks through a forest,
the branches of the trees
curl in on themselves,
like a broken doll's spine.
The frost is his king,
but the plants wilt- no,
kneel before him,
knowing he is its heir.

Once he passes by,
his footprints leave behind unmade beds,
soothing grey skies,
and dreary eyes blinking,
wondering what the hell happened to summer.
His voice is that of frosted grass being crushed under boots,
and his touch like morning fog.

He can be found in
all the hands stuffed in pockets that only dream
of one day knowing what
another hand feels like.
He is every secret the merciless rain
whispers to the soil.
He is a constant reminder of
the cold that is to come,
the tranquility and stillness
looming overheard.
He is ever-changing,
always moving along,
but he'll always make you
want to follow.

He is the the prince of autumn,
and the reason they call it
fall.