Lush carpeting of crimson memories strewn with relenting exits of time. Seasons come and go with resurgence of bitterness for what can’t be captured in photographic paralysis. Changing tides bring in more colors of evidence that evacuate footwork from paths always traveled. We long for the chance of do-overs as if morning rituals that cast blue skies from gray can maintain the prettiness of fantasy. The beds that sway with the wind will soon be replaced with white, hollow branches, glistening from the cruel chill of another end. We can splash in the gathering as we bid adieu to wasted months, and rush to embrace punishment for imprisoned emotions that give leaves permission to fall away.
We can’t work alone when summoned to sweep up debris of hours, waiting for the blessings that hide under dutiful switches of climate. The clutter of release can be viewed with assigned relish. Deep dives into fading beauty on the ground beckons frightful recognition of incoming itineraries.
Leaves can jump in the air if you dare to caress vacuum with promises that will wait.
Littered angles will cushion steps if you gently protect the hardness from deadly exposure.
Down to the last leaf.
