The Stars Open Early

to the bright snap of red autumn
and the chirping of wet, bitter leaves.
The wind is like weeds to my palms,
and I lace my fingertips around your arms.
The moist grass too cold for bare toes,
but refreshing to our folded legs, escapes
silhouettes of September dusk that beg
shadows to kiss. We await the later
fireplace prophesies that will ring true
among the crickets and twigs.
You squeeze my shoulderblades
and my eyes draw lazily to the sky
a moonstruck smile to the washed out stars.
A tug at your shirt, and the seasons
are seeping from the ground
in crisp, yellow conversation, sweet
autumn kisses and later September love
lingering in the steam of cider at their lips.