By Zoya Mir
The fire crackles—
voices rise, wrapped in warmth
of old quilts, tales unspun.
Apples hiss as cider
bubbles
over—
cinnamon scents mingle with crisp air,
the echo of leaves tumbling, russet and gold.
A table—
endless, creaking under
harvest bounty, laughter’s rumble,
the clatter of plates,
hands reaching, sharing
stories long chewed on,
and freshly peeled.
Pause. A lull, a sigh—
dusk settles in the window’s frame,
deep and blue,
a silent witness.
Chestnuts crack open, sharp
and sudden; the sound
of moments breaking free,
as little one’s chase shadows
in the yard, shrieking
glee into the cool.
The night folds—
softened with the euphony
of remembered songs,
and every bite a chorus,
each voice a note
in the Symphony of Kin.