Autumn is naturally sad, I think
I watch, on social media, as the natural exuberance of summertime
Fades from the posts and photos of those who are mine.

It’s my natural time of reflection,
As temperatures, and leaves, and spirits drop.

I know many who like it.
The bright colors, the warm comforts of hoodies and hot cider
The joys of Halloween and pumpkins, hayrides and spices.

I like those things, too.
But I’d far rather be sharing a summer evening campfire,
Friends and sarcasm and singing and beers,
In the sweaty heat of an August night
Nowhere to be but there.

Nichole M. Dulin


Throwback Thursday: poems from the past

Sunday, When You’re Gone

Sunday, when you’re gone
I’m quiet all day long.
I move about in silence,
On the edge of the world.
I calculate where you must be by now.
Sunday, when you’re gone
I wake up late.
If your presence was ever drunkening,
This then, must be the hangover.
And when four hours have gone by,
I press my eyes closed
To picture your car
Pulling up before your house
And you climbing out of the car
With just a touch of melancholy
And a smile.
Sunday, when you’re gone.

Nichole M. Dulin