When the Air Begins to Forget

The wind no longer hums — it whispers.

What was once a golden breath of warmth

now carries the scent of iron and frost.

Leaves don’t dance anymore;

they sigh — brittle, slow —

like old souls folding into silence.

The trees have stopped pretending.

Their bones show through,

pale against the dimming sky,

each branch tracing a memory

of something it once held —

a song, a bird, a beam of honeyed sun.

Somewhere far away,

a stream hums its final tune

before freezing into stillness.

The water tastes of smoke and copper,

of farewells whispered too softly

to echo.

Even light feels heavier now —

thick and gray,

spilling like dusk through half-shut eyes.

The last apples hang like lanterns

in the orchard’s hollow breath,

sweet and bruised,

their perfume too soft for the coming cold.

I walk barefoot through the season’s skin —

moss beneath, frost above —

and every step sounds like paper tearing,

like time giving way.

This is the hour between breaths,

the pause before winter’s voice returns —

low, white, and patient.

And somewhere in that hush,

I can almost hear the earth exhale,

letting go of color, of warmth, of light —

to become beautiful in its surrender.