Autumns cloak crunches
underfoot
Like paper cranes folded in
The feverish propulsion of
summer.
You tell me to take my shoes
off
So they can be rubbed—the
knots
Tied in a ceaseless trudge
In shitty clogs on damp wood
floors
I walked to you—
Rain dripping off my brow,
Golden crisps blowing in from
outside--
And you told me its okay to
rest now.
And that even trees get
tired.
They’ve shed layers to reveal
quiet bones.
And although grayness has
taken hold,
You tell me to have faith—
That there’s life in those
veins
A capacity for phototropism
Even winter can’t stamp out.
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