In her heart,
it is always autumn
with heady aromas
like cider, new mown hay.
She rides the pinto,
the one with spirit high,
who is wont to take them
into gate or barn.
It will be the barn today,
quickly, lower the head.
Close call and fluttering heart,
hands tremble, ragged exhale.
The boy of golden hair,
same color of the hay,
is laughing up above her.
His humor is lost in her fear.
The thunder claps
to announce the rain.
Enormous drops
that pound on roof of tin.
There is electricity,
not related to the storm.
The air is pulsing
as a mellow drum.
He folds her gently
into his chest.
It is her first real kiss,
sweet, soft and deep.
In a hay loft
on a gray winters' day,
in her heart
it is always autumn.
Char Chandler
September, 2009
