Not the kind that's found

on the Reese's wrapper littering the pavement,

but rather the fallen leaves that cover it up,

painting the sidewalk prettier than any summer chalk could.

It's not the shell of a pumpkin

with a monster's face etched in front,

but the pie your father makes

and its smell wafting from an open oven

warmth with a hint of cinnamon,

and twice the spice.

It's the scratch of vinyl

and the stomping of boots

walking through bruised apple tree forests

with a black cat intertwined in your legs.

It's the crisp and vibrant sunset poking through

because I've made it halfway through the year

and I know autumn rain

will make me grow through the winter.