Rain on my face. Thunder roar.

Come and find a new season.

Seasons change and shift.

Smell the crisp cold air, the fire smoke, the pecans.

Change your clothes, your shoes, your food.

Meet the insatiable urge to find the next new thing.

The trees lose their leaves and grow thicker bark.

Protecting themselves.

The sun creeps slowly away.

Darker, smaller, less intense.

The geese fly overhead, honking that they are going where it is warmer.

They are escaping to where it is more comfortable.

To be an escapist goose, flying in formation to a place that is a second home.

Comfort in a blue chair.

Drinking warm coffee, reading for fun again.

Or talking with my mother, in our place where we know each other.

And she finds God daily.

Reds, yellows, bright oranges replace the green of summer.

Bare branches are exposed.

The sky is clear, and blue, and harsh.

The wind bites at my skin.

Turns it red.

With the world spinning so fast, why are we not thrown off?

Or dizzy? (perhaps we are.)

Hold me close, so at least when we fly, we’ll be together.


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