every year on september first, the leaves outside
her apartment turn rich with color.
these are new promises hanging on each vein, and
old regrets trailing along the branches, but most of the time
they don't notice the less obvious.

on certain days later in autumn,they'll raise a toast
to the years of memories leading up to today. afterwards,
they'll light their fireplace and sprawl out on the rug,
talking about anything and nothing and everything--

there are too many happy endings in most stories,
but she isn't asking for much this year, maybe just her
peace of mind for the future.