October’s Child

Born in the breath of woodsmoke and fire, I learned early to love the art of falling. Leaves tumble like poorly kept secrets, trees strip down without shame - modesty’s for summer, after all. October hums with rebellion: bonfires blaze, sunsets bleed, and the wind, cheeky as ever, slips its cold fingers into every undone button. History rattles here - 200 years since Waterloo fell quiet, suffragette echoes stomping in boots, a reminder that not all noise is noise. It’s a trickster wrapped in amber light, half beauty, half bite, where endings feel like beginnings and ghosts pretend they’re just passing through. They whisper, “You’re braver than the fall.” And with each year, I’ve learned to ask, Will I rise, no matter how hard I fall? Can I burn and still remain whole? These are the quiet prayers I carry - for strength to keep standing when the world turns cold, for light in the darkest corners, and for the courage to blaze, unashamed of the fire I carry. Stitched from October’s fabric a half twilight, half ember - I walk between the brittle and the burning, the quiet and the wild, a child of autumn, still falling, still smugly aflame.