There is a certain elegance to the fallen leaf.
Such as, the distance between what is seen and what will be.
There is a backyard mechanic in me…that ponders, just let the ‘upheaval be!’
The heathen in me…holds fall’s conformity…as pure misogyny.
Who, say I, omnipotent, as we would like to believe…
can deny the prosperity in the extinction of sage, musk or…the gluttonous pumpkin?
And, who am I, to pledge against hay fever’s twist on loving?
With decayed log on an open fire.
With Smokey’s permission…to burn…now my turn.
I have been attempting to avoid a cold.
I assume the nature of things…will correct my being so bold.