The Spirit of Autumn

In the autumn cold, the smoke-sweet air 

laughter births vapor dragons rising up from 

red-rimmed nostrils, and warm clove nutmeg mouths,

making streetlights holy haloes of rainbows.

Mellow golden light of the café spills 

from the shopfront window 

splashing onto the redbrick walk leaf litter.

The front door uncorks

in a champagne foam of warm earthen air,

and music, ideas, voices in conversation.

Heaven is a crisp fall,

rosy apple cheeks, an undone scarf that smells of 

shampoo and cinnamon,

infatuated laughter over hot cider, tea, coffee, wine,

in a warm, wooden bar 

that never has a closing time.