Cusp of Autumn

We feast on ripe watermelon slices
as the hardwood floors of the old house
rot beneath us, and barn cats—
feral until it comes time for begging—
circle the front porch.

I wear my favorite dress,
the same pink shade as the pulpy fruit
on my tongue, and now inches
too short despite the drooping hem.
I am growing fast and the days
are hands at my back, shoving me
onward even as I stumble.

Through the open window I watch
the tire swing stir in the breeze.
An apple tree litters the ground
with yellow globes that release
a sweet scent in their rotting,
reminding me of fall,
of cold orchard cider.



About the Poet:
M. Stone is a bookworm, birdwatcher, and stargazer who writes poetry while living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in San Pedro River Review, SOFTBLOW, Calamus Journal, and numerous other print and online journals. She can be reached at



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