I warm my hands around autumn
like it were a cup of tea,
clinging to the heat until
the flavoured water is down
the sink or down the throat,
and the minute hand does not run
any faster than it did when
the water came to a boil.

I fold late fall into
my red checkered handkerchief
and store it like a pressed leaf
in the pocket of my khakis
weathered off-white with a frayed hem.
The pocket has a hole I plug
with the tip of a finger
as I take my secret home
to admire in stillness.

Autumn is a translucent balm
that heals the bruise and numbs the pain
so flowers may bloom in the wounded
space between two heartbeats again.