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
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.
about the writer.
“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw)