Autumn
By Chelsea Bunn

Someone told me the air is getting colder.
Someone told me letters turn into feather.
Someone told me this is a made-up language:
     the smell of leaves growing heavy,
     the painting of death on a country drive.

Someone told me to live a whole life
before writing a poem,
but I remember the cool air from Lake Erie blowing
my hair as we sat on a wooden picnic table.
Remember the ride in a speeding ambulance,
next to my pale, frightened father.
     Remember the first time I imagined you were someone else.

Today is a song in Icelandic.
I have no idea what it means.
It is beautiful.

It is the roar of feedback,
the steady, haunting notes on piano,
the breathing of ghosts.

Sounds like autumn.
Sounds like a yellow tree on the side of the road.
Sounds like orange turning brown.