The wind fills the trees with oceans. The leaves
are ripped off mother’s embracing arms.
The thoughtful year
collapses under the plunging antlers.
The sun withdraws.

The stars slip in. The life and death
machine will nearly stop soon.
But in Autumn
we can afford to be mellow, the leaves
pasted to the road
the colors of money, wistful smoke
in the wind,
a ritual
with fur in the memory.

The melody still plays in November
but January
is a metal we can’t touch.

Play in the leaves.

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