Finding fault with the leaves
of a nearby maple
because they are changing color;
the tree is stubbornly holding on to
the end of summer here but
doesn’t it know
it’s still warm, shouldn’t it ignore
what time of year it is?

Trying to identify clothing
I can still wear even though
it all hangs on me like shrouds
on a body, untucked,
moving with the slight breeze
picked up by my walking;
how do I not know my limits,
how is it that I forget them
until I see myself in a mirror?

Thinking of those millions of souls
I know, have met, hope
to meet, or will never meet;
how is it all of everything floats
with this chaos and I am
untouched, how it it
I am left alone to sleep
weeping, then worn from tears
I stare silently up
at the dim ceiling?

Chaining my heart
and all the rest of me
to whatever name
suits it best; each little thing,
each puzzle piece
remains the same
through the autumn
then changes suddenly
to almost winter
as it always does and always should;
why do I care so much about
how it will change? Why
does it matter to me?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T