Poem: Crisp

Crisp

Sun-baked cinnamon, mulled senses and flame,
November's whisper dances circles across the floor.
We cannot be but horizontal,
eating to the sky, our tongues lavishing
stewed tart apple, our cheeks brushed with brown sugar
ice cream droplets scatter the pillows framing our heads.
We lap up cider, aroma like tea, lemons bobbing,
the flicker of shadows as a draft caresses candle.
Amber, woody, auburn, fall,
basking in the luxury of sense, texture of smell.