Ace MacLean-Cury ‘27
Crisp
A crisp sweet apple or smell of cinnamon;
An autumn tone woven into the air.
A smell as somber as it is not.
Often spring-smelled, but now not.
A mark of new and end alike,
Beginning and end of life as we know—
As one brings about greens and sweets, the other brings dark and rot.
The end of sun and the start of moon—
The marker of times.
A crisp that accompanies a crunch—
A Crunch…
The crunch of a chip or of a fresh bone,
The sallow color of sickness;
The crunch of Crackers and the warmth of soup;
An uneven feeling of dread and bliss;
A miss of warmth, but promises of cold.
To sow the ground for new growth, but baring the ground for the old—
A Crunch of leaves as orange as a dye,
Running through forests as bare as they are full.
Leaves falling like trees in the night.
A crunch of time where people try to get the most,
But everyone leaves with the least.
The joy of Jumping into leaves;
The sadness of bareness;
The autumn crunches and crispies,
Forever to be one with each other.