A Poem for Autumn

 Lorelei

She sits in stillness, like the dusk, 

Where shadows fold and soft lights bask—

In her, the evening finds its grace,

Her form, a calm in twilight's chase.

Her auburn hair falls like a sigh,

The russet glow of fading sky,

And as the day dissolves to night,

It lingers on her, haloed light.

Her wrist, where times itself reclines,

Holds elegance in silver lines,

A watch that gleams in setting sun,

Yet pales beside the grace she's spun.

The glass, now resting in her hand,

A vessel touched by something grand—

Her fingers, curved like art itself,

As tough they shape the world's own wealth.

Her clothes embrace her like a prayer,

Fitted close, but light as air, 

And how they fold around the chair,

As if the room, too, breathes her there.

I want to speak—no, more than speak—

To let my lips on her hand seek

The quiet pulse, the sacred thread

That weaves her soul in hues of red.

Those rubicund knuckles, veined with life,

Sing in silence, free from strife—

And in her veins, there flows a song,

Of all that is delicate—and strong.

She sits in beauty, soft and clear,

Where even silence bends to hear—

Her presence holds both dusk and dawn,

The night itself in her withdrawn. . .

Beautiful👏🏼🍞

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