Mondays are just young Fridays


Leaves hanging on, holding on,

day after or day before.   Closer.

We know this can’t be autumn

evermore. Impressions.   Cooler

mornings. Slight breeze. The end

of one season, the beginning of

another a long cold winter. Soon.

Perhaps.         How can we know?

    Apprehension.   Wicked winds

have not yet stripped trees bare.

We find comfort in colour and

perception.    Sometimes it’s not

the ability to face a storm,    but

the forethought to recognize

what is coming.              Hold on.


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