He is the turn of Autumn

He is the turn of Autumn in the orange sun,
He is the fire of ginger beer on my tongue,
He is scrawled thoughts on brown paper pages
and crow’s feet crinkled, glinted eyes.
He is a sip of iced water on a hot summer’s day
and the look that lingers longingly,
poised to kiss wet skin with a feathered lip.
He is the feel of a brown suede boot
laced up with folk songs and wine.
He holds all my laughter in little jars of pickled time.
His voice is the harbour where I moor my boat,
where footprints fan out in grains of sand.
The small of his back is a nook for my palm.
His voice is a sculptor of whiskey-smoked words.