by Donna M. Davis

An orange leaf falls
into the rusty bucket.
The air is cold;
the horses snap at apples.

A farmer walks
to the end of the pasture,
measures with each boot
the distance that he owns.

Children gather
the hats of acorns,
and russet leaves are
pressed in schoolbooks.

I hoist water
for the horse trough
with a sugar cube
in my flannel pocket.

I return to you
to share my dream of autumn,
and the room where we sleep
draws the woods closer.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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