In Autumn

First sip of warm tea on a November morning,

Porches with aging leaves ready to surrender, 

A little girl in a July dress squats quietly—

a stalk of dead carnations in her left hand, 

a fistful of dirt in the other. 

I offer her the warmth of my autumn coat,

She keeps her words tucked inside her.

Her mother, from the house, tells me not to worry—

She is mourning the loss of the season,

a warmth that lingers only as a fading feeling. 

My old foolishness returns to me,

A spark of the youth I wasted

clinging to the warmth of transient touch—

the only good I can still remember,

where it blossomed into the bright garden of my soul. 

Oh, little one,

Why are we so alike?

Mourning the rapid changes of our innocence,

holding onto what makes us feel alive,

pretending it was meant to be eternal. 

Tiffany Putri