How will I know? she asked, trepidation in her quiver.

The autumn wind will blow, he said,

pressing his thumb into her palm.

The summer cicada will have chirped its last,

hobbling off to winter’s decay.

The lawnmower’s whir will cease to break

the sound of playing children,

silenced through the darkened days.

The autumn wind will blow;

twigs will snap, acorns will fall,

and nature’s litter will fill the sidewalks.

The sleeves will become long,

calming the shiver that autumn’s chill

has sent through the late days of summer.

He laced his fingers through hers.

The crisp air will fill your lungs,

lacking the sharpness of winter’s menace that follows.

The tides of your swirling thoughts will calm,

a Jacob’s ladder of refreshing clarity.

Your exhaled breath will smell of cinnamon,

a sign that change has come.

He squeezed her hand gently.

Now walk with me while the night is warm,

I am here with you now.

You will know when I am gone,

the autumn wind will blow.