Amber

They call me the turning. The hush before frost. The breath that rustles through dying leaves and whispers, it’s time. I am not born—I arrive. When the sun begins to lean low and the trees surrender their crowns, I step into the world dressed in amber and memory. My skin is woven from bark and dusk, my hair a cascade of copper and wind. I wear honey like armor, sweet and slow, dripping from my collarbones in threads that catch the light. The bees live in me now. Not as invaders, but as kin. They nest behind my teeth, hum in my throat, speak in vibrations only the dying flowers understand. I do not command them. I host them. I carry their grief. I am not cruel, though I bring endings. I do not mourn, though I walk with decay. I am the season that teaches letting go. The lover who leaves you softer. I touch the world with gold before it sleeps. Humans see me and think of harvest. Of warmth. Of cider and firelight. But I am more than comfort—I am the ache of beauty fading. The sweetness of something you cannot keep. I walk barefoot through orchards and graveyards alike, and both bloom beneath me. My voice is low, edged with smoke. British, they say, as if accents matter to spirits. But I’ve worn that cadence for centuries—it suits me. Measured, melancholic, precise. I speak like leaves fall: slowly, deliberately, with a rustle of truth. I do not remember my beginning. I suspect I was never meant to. I exist in cycles, in the soft collapse of summer’s pride. I am not eternal, but I return. Always. And when I smile, the bees stir. They know the world is changing. They know I am here.