By Thomas Moore Copyright ©2026 Autumn leans close with cinnamon on its breath, And gold leaves loosen like silk at our feet. Your hand finds mine in the orchard’s hush, Where apples blush and the dusk turns sweet. The wind undresses the trees with a sigh, While shadows warm in the amber light. I taste the season in your whispered name, A flame held soft against the night. Beneath the moon, the fields exhale, Their harvest scent wrapped deep in desire. Fall burns sl