Sarah Sprouse

 

Disregarding an Early Bedtime

 

 

 

The last, lingering cloud embers

of late autumn afternoon fell

to meet the encroaching dusk—

and the chill of its sunless sky.

 

Footfalls met pavement, cold pavement,

our feet were black-bottomed, still

bare in autumn.

The only shiver is the shiver of a

thrill—as we wander.

 

Flaming amethyst withered and wept

into the bare limbs of oaks.

Clasped hands, warm and clammy

with sweat—

the crisp air wrapped us

into its folds,

but we did not tug at

our sweaters.