fall is coming.
i smell her in the soil and i catch her song in the rustling of the morning leaves. she is such a brave mother-fucker as she releases the leaves that have expired and asks no questions of what she did wrong or why she wasn’t enough to keep them alive. as greens turn to crimson and goldenrod, perhaps my heart will turn from fire to embers and maybe i will learn from sister autumn to let go of you.
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about the writer.“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw) past tense.
January 2019
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