Ripened

_{The touch of damp heat lingers
like a steamy washcloth over the city, but
I can taste the smell of red leaves
on my tongue and it comforts me.
There is a season for everything,
so I hear, and I cannot wait
for Autumn to fall
like a ripe apple into my life.}






I think I'll write a sonnet about Fall. I've written two about Summer, so it's only fair. Maybe I'll challenge myself not to talk about the change of color, but it's one of my favorite parts...