September

The breath of Autumn,

Sweeps across the metal.

Dry blades,

Brittle and crackling,

Are cast across and up.

They arch like a breaking wave,

Crash and explode in sandy hues,

And descend like confetti.

They land on the emerald carpet,

Warm and spongy from mid-morning fire,

Burning billions of miles away,

Bearing down upon the individual weaves of jade on the terrain.