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by A. Antonovic
Tangled ball of yarn, red and ruddy,
waiting to be turned into a sweater
with the click of knitting needles.
Apples, polished to perfection,
nestled in the basket that holds our dreams,
perched on the fireplace's hearth.
Crackling fire, simmering stew, baking bread,
all working together to bring warmth
to the chill of the damp, autumn air.
Leaves, in their departed glory,
no longer crisp and colourful, but rotting
into wet mounds of earth.
Poetry, poised expectantly on
fall's edge of turning season,
ready to take form.
You, coming from the misted air,
hair tousled, smiling eyes as blue as your denim jacket,
peek of a beige fisherman's sweater beneath,
arms open wide, drawing near, just for me.