It was about Fall,
A warm golden breeze,
Where are you now?
Rustled chiming in the trees,
Did all that leave?
And you’ll sit behind your eyes,
As they say things I don’t hear,
But I’ll assume they’re lies,
Because the damp soil way it’s spoken,
Leaves footprints in the soil,
A scent; a petrichor of fear.
And I’m alone on my beach once more,
Waiting paint to dry,
Describing and dissecting
The memory of the tongue.
And though many words have blown over now,
And through the doors, broken leaves,
Turning over marked pages with dog ears.
On the cusp of Autumn still,
Summer’s thirst for rain still fresh,
To my mind.
And times tidal wave may draw back,
Hauntingly,
Left me stranded like the shoreline’s dregs,
Though I’ve long since been whole,
Alone.
You didn’t arrive here without tidying first,
I believe that too.
I’ll point the finger home because,
I do that too…
I do that too.
Long since been whole alone
The Humble Rock Dove 