
Pine cones on the concrete and Evergreen in the air I remember
this all from last year, so it’s time to run
while it’s still Fall
don’t let it get you, don’t let it get you down
.
.
.
Maybe not every lesson is worth a lean but bank on the Fall
crispy and loud and shaking, knocking at the knees
since real eyes an crumbling expectations- not everything is an Evergreen, some leaves
turn colors and fade, disintegrate on the street or mulch into soil
there’s a difference in purpose, remember?, you’ve got to stretch out to be big, remember?
But it was such a little house
and I only played in traffic twice, the shaking roar of the buses
usually reminded me right where I was- I’m just grateful
for the passage of time, both the golden hour and the foggy days, I’m just grateful
that none of the mud slung stained my favorite sweater, I’m just grateful
for most nights feeling the beat walking like an urban cowboy on the concrete
writing out singing to the sunset colors on my blank mind- again,
it was one long lesson on breaking expectations, and about time
I've released into the naturalness I fought
so hard to cultivate, and for squeezing
sweet and sour ambrosia drops out like memento-memories into a jar
and when I’m ready I’ll drink it full for goodness sakes.
the Little House Poem
My Last Poem About Her
Somewhere the same film runs
on, but as for this
one, it is time to end