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It serves no fruitful purpose to wax melancholic in your late middle years as rust-colored leaves drop, one by one by one by one, from the sycamores, the oaks and maples, and whatnot trees on this cold October morning. For they will drop regardless. Have been dropping, if you think about it, these ten thousand million Autumns, here on Earth. And still the leaves flutter, skid, flip and land. The forest floor turns crunchy just like corn flakes. Or — more maudlin view — like brittle, snapping bones.
We look, those of this latest generation to lose its youth, to gaze uncertain and alarmed, at the sulfurous field ahead of older age. We peer for metaphor and message in the mirror of the world, after awaking from last night’s other mirror world of dream (unreliable narrator itself of the true plot of your life). Hence, I turn my eyes up in the air, as leaves come tumbling, tracing trajectories, trying to enjoy the watercolor rainstorm. For what it is.
Choosing instead just to call it Autumn, not my life. This seems more useful than to start another trudge into another day, heavy black-wool sack stuffed with trepidation, at my heels. Listening tuned, instead, to the crunch-crunch of my feet below.
The morning air, when drunk, is cool and clean, like bone-dry chardonnay, cold glass beaded by sweat. Whose taste recalls a slice of Bosc pear, maybe sunlight (which can be smelled, you know). And, too, the aroma, like turned soil and ozonated rain, of these littered leaves sparking through the breakfast air. This year’s bountiful harvest of October’s chronology.
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From “Poems Without a Book”
by Douglas Imbrogno
~ An After-dark Walking tour of Huntington, WV
~ Insomnia Album: Pictures for the Pre-Wee Hours
~ Poems Without a Book
~ Six Variations on a Curve in the Road
~ Some Days, Nothing Will Do
~ Still Life with Lines, Leaf and Water
~ Excruciating Pain Report
~ I Got Nuts, Beef, Candy
~ Blue Rooms