Burgundy leaves, same internal clock buzzing,

The routine repeats. The tune alerts the sleepers,

That their dreams will stay as such, that the misfortunes

 

Of this cataclysmic space, makes the cool air crack, mid blow.

Iridescent howls bring us back to the time we became the wolves.

The shed of our skin and tears.

 

Yellow leaves, the happy toddler plays in the pile, stumbles right,

wobbles left. Lemon faces scrunched up at the sight of a prospect

not fine enough for the decadent eye, a warm cup of earl grey.

 

I often find it hard to focus,

 

on Autumn days, while burnt orange leaves shuffle in every direction

and woosh viciously through the air, to reach the ground

in a still swift swoop.


Annie Murphy is an English major. She works at the Penn State Berkey Creamery on campus. In her free time, she writes poetry and nonfiction. She also enjoys playing with her four cats. She seeks her inspiration from Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath, along with her professors that have molded her work over the years. She aspires to write her own book of poetry one day.