A Poem for Autumn
She is beauty in death personified.
Creator of Netflix and chill.
Giving way to the lies of summer and flirting with the closeness of relation-ships.
She is crisp, like the crunch of fallen leaves playing the soundtrack for pedestrians.
She is jazz in the park. John Coltrane.
Rhythmically in sync like the movements of two lovers.
Her comfort is like hands tapping away at keyboards purging the soul. She is fly.
Rocking boots that elongate the backbone of change.
And jackets that shelter her from the unknown.
Sweet, like a tall pumpkin spice latte with extra cinnamon.
To see her is to love her.
The embodiment of warm colors. Painted with only the brush of God himself.
Her smell cuts through pollution like knife through tension.
Romanticizing the scent of love. Sassy.
Her swift winds causes hats to linger in the air like questions of police brutality.
She is tough.
Like black hoodies, low fitted caps, and fresh Timbs in huddles.
The swagger of poverty and the pride of consequences.
She is Omega.
Last call for basketballs bouncing, sneakers squeaking, and an intense game of tag.
Ropes double tapping the pavement with laughter.
She is youth.
Patient. Seamlessly transforming what was into what is to be.
She is the coolness of Bedstuy and the stench of gentrification.
Her shadow is the blueprint for appropriation.
The intensity of her beauty reflects the depth of pain.
She is Alpha.
Investing new beginnings to a people that temporarily lost their way.
She is proud. Like afros, black fists, and a message.
Fearless. Ready to take on the unknown.
Unapologetic. One day she can be sweet, comforting, and warm.
The next her dismissal can cause bones to quiver.
Elder. Wisdom oozing out of her pores cures the world with each drop.
She is the reflection of God.
His strength defines her history.
She is we.
A black soul.
Autumn.
Undefined.
