Here comes the numb,
doo,
doo,
doo.
Here comes the numb,
and I say:
it's alright.
October:
Clover grows in the lower groves
but goes brown on the ground around me.
Corn rows close, and those who chose
as their surroundings
the farmland pristine
with crops that drop, shopped by machines
envision transitions within themselves
that mirror the brown coming down on what's green with health.
Time to burn the effigies.
Time to name the scarecrows.
Time to chase pumpkin vines,
and follow where the fear goes.
The season flees from fall breezes,
freezing pieces of the leaves
that crash from trees in waves like seas,
and descend from deciduous decidedly.
Somewhere in this air, you can find me.
I'll see you there.
We'll see.
How many times does fall happen?
Comments
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this is the third time ive read this.
it makes me miss up north.
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