Autumn's Sweet Hurting

First day of autumn, Far more sacred almost Than my own birthday. For on this day, A long time ago, I fell in love with A breeze falling from your locks. Each year, when this day comes around, I draw the well-sealed cork from a jar And let the lamps burn till dawn While I raise a hundred toasts In memories of springs and summers. Autumn is a fiction Until you live in it, and It is too late to relearn seasons Once they set in. But once in a while, A few young leaves fall with dry ones And ask questions to old ferns like me About shapes and sizes of love, Grafting spring dreams on grey boughs. You deemed it sin To hope for what is not allowed in fall, When it pours out harvests and Short numb days recur. But you'll not stop me from revelling on this day, Wearing lively green masks, Which tolerate sky, rain, and my doorstep While hurting me.