Autumn,
fall,
this season that blows
through the attic window on me.
How quickly you came with your colours of yellow and
rust and red.
Our apple tree is giving up her apples to you.
They lie scattered around our garden
like red cherries in a Christmas cake.
The nights,
these nights when raindrops speckle the windowpanes
like camera bokeh.
Night, brings the shadows.
However,
Italy and Florence
lie before me.
With open arms they wait.
It doesn't matter how quickly these days fly.
What matters is the memories
I will capture on the parchment of
my journal.
The one I'll send to you.
