October
Oh October,
how I love you in your roundness.
Your very name evokes the shape
of expectant, orbicular gourds;
of apples, acorns, owls’ eyes
and moons, full like ghostly galleons.
You open,
offering opulent, orange orgasms
that burst brightly red and amber
then settle into sleepy susurration.
If I could
I would build a gown of leaves;
I would weave them wildly in my hennaed hair
and would come to you on bare feet.
I’d ask only
for one dark night of dancing
beneath stars and among your fallen glory
and for ginger kisses from your misty lips.