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Wednesday, June 12, 2013

Visions of 8th Street

Nov. 14, 1988

The old street bleeds rivulets of red from beds of brown leaves piled at my feet. The chill ache of coming winter is not yet cool enough to create ice, except in me -- the pain of changing seasons I can’t control, no heat switch to turn off or on, the whim of weather, the altered leaves losing their color so all seems brown or red, that excess summer, that passionate heat, only a memory, lost with the dying season, a deception Indian summer paints on this canvas to deceive the unwary, those foolish enough to believe cold is hot and heat can be rekindled from the ashes after so much has passed since first blush, and even the memory is a lie, that what once was is worth what will be, that what was ever was what it seemed, green leaves fluttering under a furious sky, a lie only the most foolish believe, this time of year when winter’s cold breathes its deceptive breath heavily upon me, this street filled with bleeding leaves, withering trees, the gray sky with its huff and pull the only truth I see, until spring once again proves me wrong.

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