Poetry

It’s a Wednesday in September

And the leaves thinning
now like hair in the
September of a man’s days
Finally weary of
summer’s heavy-handed
advances they call to
Fall – and give
themselves to her
Pirouettes
Whispering cannonades
of bright colors
Shrapnel of harmless
confetti conveyed away
to a far away place
by some Divine grace
Nothing taken for the trip
but a whole and simple faith
A sublime state
few mortals attain
We kick against the breeze
Fight the natural Fall
Far too evolved
to leave
as the leaves
But there’s no hurry
We had today,
didn’t we?
And every given day
fairly dripping
with poetry

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