No spotlight, fanfare, point to pushpin on a map. It happens quietly, the way you write a poem like robbing a grave, guided only by memory and starlight, metal muffled in the loam. Every year becomes a footprint in the snow. There are still good hours left when sun sets before afternoon has finished its tea. Fireworks turn into candlelight, the wax weeping rivers for you so that you can forage for joy where, once, the fog refused to lift. Pumpkin spice no longer aftertastes of existential dread. The woods scream at night, and it’s just the coyotes. You learn to embroider without patterns. You know exactly when to leave.

Prompts used (tags are the poets’ IG handles):

@lipstick.stains_ - “the moment when nostalgia stops aching” @tangledflxwers - “the woods scream at night, I pray it’s just coyotes” @libbjenner.poetry - “foraging for joy” + “knowing when to leave” @lorrainefaepoetry - “every year is a footprint in the snow” @jasmine.s.higgins - “a fog that won’t lift” @loisofthehearth - “there are still good hours” + “pumpkin spice and existenial dread” @alexismromo - “fireworks that turn into candlelight” @wildgreensmag - November Daily Words - “patterns” @angelealowes - “it happened quietly” @theconstantpoet - “how to write a poem like you’re robbing a grave” @imandq + @ml.mecham + @theincidentalpoet - “candlewax rivers”