brown sugar is imbedded in fire orange leaves, wet and stuck to the slanted concrete on powder house lane. hours have been dark for days and slowly counting down. as each moment gets closer the leaves blend together and turn to mush underneath fast moving feet, the ones that are young and excited, and those who revisit this hidden street again and again, stuck in their own New England childhood like a movie frame–they can’t stop recurring. all of these children, no matter the substance or stage of breathing, excitedly approach doors with many stairs, the blue and grey paint chipping and the porch light glimmering against their sequence and color. crystallized leaves fall to pillowcases and these feather dreams are quietly tucked away.