My body told me today that this is my last Autumn
My bones quivered telling my muscles to enjoy the chills and the seemingly nostalgic sunspots
The leaves drift past me, more romantic than years prior
In the forest the fungi sprout creating circles around me and fill the air with an Earthy Musk.
The potatoes that hide themselves deep in the soil force me to uncover them-a strange treasure hunt-dirt wedged under my fingernails
I cry over the basket thinking about the ones I will never find, snot and tears mixing with dusty hands
On the walk home the corn crop reaches out for me, as if I could heal them- a Christ-like sentiment- for how long will I be healer?
The women in my head reminds me that this is my last autumn, next year you must heal them from the soil .
My heart does not speak, it continues its steady precession.
My depression kisses me, and whispers the answer.