Russet leaves grabbed the afternoon light to a backdrop of smokey, gray rain clouds.
Slate blue houses fronted barn-red barns next to amber fields.
“I’ve never been a fan of fall,” she said, squinting at the landscape.
“The colors,” she continued, “are overrated.”
Slate blue houses fronted barn-red barns next to amber fields.
The purple asters bent low against the walkway, listening.
“The colors,” she continued, “are overrated.”
“Maybe it’s the metaphors. Too much death.”
The purple asters bent low against the walkway, listening.
Squirrels nicked at sunken jack-o-lanterns.
“Maybe it’s the metaphors. Too much death.”
Christmas lights hung in the drugstores.
Squirrels nicked at sunken jack-o-lanterns.
“Can it be that time again already?” she exclaimed, shaking her head.
Christmas lights hung in the drugstores.
The Norway maples held tight to what they had left.
“Can it be that time again already?” she exclaimed, shaking her head.
“I’ve never been a fan of fall,” she said, squinting at the landscape.
The Norway maples held tight to what they had left.
Russet leaves grabbed the afternoon light to a backdrop of smokey, gray rain clouds.
Nov. 10, 2013
One of 30 poems in 30 days