The girl who wears the last light of Autumn

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She stands as if she were painted by the season itself,
a long emerald dress flowing like the memory of summer,
hair drifting like forgotten lullabies,
a single butterfly suspended before her as if asking,
“Are you ready to let go… or shall we linger a little longer?”
The trees bow in quiet reverence.
The sun, too close, too tender, hangs low like a lantern of farewell.
Every fallen leaf glows as if lit by her breath.
She is not merely in autumn.
She is autumn,
its longing, its softness, its hidden ache.