I want to be an Autumn,
I want to be an Autumn so badly.
But unfortunately, I’m a Winter.
I can’t be Spring, I’m not a sweet and gentle beginning.
I can’t be Summer, I’m not a hot and bright interlude.
And I can’t be Autumn, because I’m not the brisk but welcome reaping of what was sowed.
That harvest isn’t mine.
I’m the cold and dark after.
I’m the closing shift, turndown service, flipping the lights and dusting the sparse shelves.
I’m the overnight, the back room stocker, checking logs and expecting, expecting expecting.
Expecting the red eye, expecting a shipment, expecting the openers, any minute now.
God, I want to be an Autumn.
I want my turn with the bounty, I want my turn at the table singing gratitude to the Summers and Springs.
I want my chance to enjoy the occasional surprise warm afternoon contrasted by chilly puddles from morning rain.
I want to say grace, and cheers to falling leaves I watched grow beside the people I watch them grow with.
But they’re not awake. They’re in the thick of their long nights’ rest on the way back to Spring, to Summer,
Autumn.
So I’ll be here. Syncing the clocks, doing the filing, sweeping up. Someone has to.











