Autumn really did get away with slacking this year. The trees never found a boldness, at least not around here. Whatever leaves are left twitch in the barely-there wind like dried cicada shells, or shreds of old paper. Seeds are now the meat of the branches.
Dramatic Irony: Those seeds will never produce a tree.
I’m in a really poetic mood or something, but I suppose I was doomed from the start. Both of my parents were poetry-junkies in high school; my husband is a romantic; it’s my m-12’s afternoon charging period; I’m listening to the Coraline soundtrack. Aside from needing a newt leg, it’s the perfect witches’ brew (Holy crap, Halloween is tomorrow).
But I could care less about my urge to write flowery. The trembling leaves outside are proof that nature is a poet, too.