When we open our eyes to the first day of fall,
it will be as warm as all of the days of summer
and our slumber will end the same as any other
with discarded sheets,
and curtains cast aside,
with the making of beds,
after a moment spent
lingering at bedside.
Outside, the still-green leaves rustle
in an undefinable breeze,
the sounds of commuting cars
echoing among manicured trees.
Inside, we do not know fall has come
until we chance into chilled air,
only to escape back inside,
already praying for weather more fair,
insulated by sealed doors,
hidden by tinted windows.
We rearrange wardrobes
and turn the thermostat dial
a few degrees at a time
to maintain the illusion of sameness we hold so dear,
so dear that we fear its changing, preferring to hide back under the covers,
that our slumber may end the same as any other.