by Marisa Thornwell
September arrives like a shadow slipping under the door,
soft at first, then everywhere.
The light thins,
as if the sun is already tired of us.
The air cools,
but not kindly
it’s the kind of chill that reminds you
something is ending,
even if you can’t name what.
Leaves begin their slow dying,
coloring themselves beautifully
for the funeral no one attends.
The trees pretend it’s natural,
but even they tremble
when the wind calls their names.
Nights stretch longer,
not in comfort,
but in warning.
The dark grows teeth.
The silence grows a pulse.
You feel the shift in your bones
before the calendar admits it.
September is the doorway
between what was warm
and what will be cold.
A hinge month.
A threshold month.
A month that asks,
without mercy,
what you’re still carrying
that you should have let go.
And as the season turns,
you realize the truth:
Some endings don’t wait for winter.
Some begin quietly,
in the soft, dying light
of September.
Art by Irina Sztukowski, “Fall Reflections“
About the Author
Marisa is a student writer and poet from South Dakota who draws inspiration from farm life, quiet mornings, and the small stories found in rural places.