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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