I fall into a golden, crisp carpet of leaveswatching as the wind whirls theminto a painting of bronze butterfliestheir wings rustleand I am by the sea againremembering the summerI love the aroma of sweet-scented cinnamonsprinkled on warm pumpkin piecrunchy apples and maple leavesbrushing the air with a wash of maple syrupAs Mom callsthe leaves crackle under my bootsand I whirl into the whispering wind