in honor of the tenth month: an etheree is a poem of ten lines, ascending or descending from one to ten syllables

Soon
the scent
of woodsmoke
will spike the soul
against a backdrop
of iron-gray spattered
with bright orange, yellow, red
but for now, October whispers
sweet green nothings as if we can’t sense
her chill unlacing cloak about to fall

Alphonse Mucha – PagP50 Automne/Autumn, c.1903. Public domain.