„It is not autumn yet“, you said, as we walked into a storm,
But I secretly held you close enough for me to keep you warm
I wasn’t quite prepared for it, when you told me to let go.
And I was a little scared for us, but I couldn’t let you know.
“It’s been cold since September first.” I said.
You claimed to not remember.
And you made the next twenty days your right.
You always were your best defender.
“Find the warmth within yourself”, you urged, “and just let the cold go.”
“But the cold is who I am”, I said, “I am an autumn girl, you know.”
“It’s the time to be light, you see. This is not your season.”
I was afraid to let you go, so I nodded and felt treason.
„It isn’t autumn yet”, you insisted. “Not till September twenty first.”
I shivered alone in my sweater and looked up as the next cloud burst.
Golden and warm, autumn was in a chevy,
But in need of freedom, to you, it would always have been too heavy.
So when the day came to mark that end of summer
There was nothing left to say between me and it’s drummer.
“Goodbye.” you said and headed for the light and I was bound for winter.
I hid the pain, but it remained a heavy way to splinter.
“Goodbye,” you said, “You gloomy girl.”, as you began the straying,
Now you’re headed for eternal spring and I, I will be staying.
But golden and never afraid of the dark, this still is my season.
Even if you, my love, could never see my reason.
- K. M. Bartello, Winterbound
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