1.

shaken from, the leaves

fall to their joyless graves.

the fire crackles in a home,

swaying like an intense

red-orange flower in

the midst of a zephyr.

2.

a slice

of warm apple pie can be

cut carefully from its whole,

lifted from its metal case &

land on a pristine, sparkling plate

with a cushion of air

before its sugary, caramel-colored

insides give in,

& the whole triangle,

steaming in love,

collapses—

a little crooked,

a little saggy,

a little ready to enjoy.

3.

ah, but of course!
how can we forget about the ice cream?

there we go:

a cold ball of vanilla bean with

specks of black dotting its surface is

scooped out, eased onto

the apple pie’s wrinkly head.

a pearl sits on top,

the gem of a glittering crown.

4.

together:

apple pie & vanilla bean ice cream

in the mouth.

the sweet dough melts in

its pool of opal cream,

a delicious juxtaposition—

a crisp contrast

of both a warm home

& the cool autumn breeze.