My clock has stopped
        at autumn.

I shake it to no effect.

Even the alarm sounds russet.

The world is turning brown
     around me.

Green, ah, that’s become yesterday’s dream.

The leaves are long since down.

I can no longer count on spring.

The blooms? They belong to others, and

Summers? They’ve become a concept
            I take on faith.

My new specialty is withering.

Earth, here I come.

Fall 2011

All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
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