She seduces me each September—
warm summer kisses
tasting of frost and smoke;
her voluptuous dance,
flamboyant raiment discarded
piece by piece,
revealing more and more of bewitching nakedness.
But it always ends the same—icy tears each December.
Still, I know I
Tony Jasnowski teaches English at Bellevue University. Can there be any doubt which season is his favorite?
The aged apple tree is barren as days become colder.
The sweet aroma of cider, from remaining windfall fruit, floats on a chilly breeze that ruffles through brittle leaves still clinging to gnarled branches.
I have gleaned all I can, leaving behind a harvest feast for deer who visit nightly.
Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.
He took her for a drive in the countryside, down a gravel road, past forests of red maples and golden oaks. Fading sunshine cast elongated shadows.
No one spoke.
He stopped the car, got out, and looked into her large, illuminated eyes.
“Still the prettiest coupe I know,” he said.
Krystyna Fedosejevs writes poetry, short stories and Flash Fiction. She has had several poems and flash fiction stories published. She is stationed in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, although she loves to travel around the world.
For one summer, we were best of friends. Autumn undid us, something in the changing colours, the changing winds.
We hardly spoke during tenth grade. Then June arrived. I hoped, childishly, that the sunlight would reunite us.
Life may move in cycles, but you never cross the same river twice.