Wordsworth Magazine Autumn 2021

Molded by stranger’s hands Soaking up sunshine tea, Brewed in august Spilled over the endless, haunted streets Where does it go?

In September, the sun clung to me, And dashed away, with my stolen smile I longed for the release of fall, And sat there, dreaming patiently I wiped the coffee-stained page, Of an old friend of mine And I scribbled something down What was it, again?

Autumn leaves of amber gold, Drifted softly through the skies Carrying scents of apple barrels, Through the crisp october pines The harvest moon melted, Yellow moonlight filled my window pane Black bunting danced to the crow’s soothing songs, And the lamp lights flickered faint I treaded lightly through the road, Dressed as someone else And the strangers gave me candy, For not being myself And sometimes if they liked who I pretended to be, They reached in and they gave me an extra big piece The pumpkin patch was the last frontier, And stretched beyond the stars I carved a dream into its ridged face, And a candle flame danced inside 17