I Could Be
A poet.
In September.
I could do it again.
September is all about…
Leaves.
And the leaf is maple.
Smaller things.
We might get depressed.
Being a leaf is sad.
September is when these small things happen.
Living.
But as a colorful leaf.
Until we are detached from our tree.
Then we are moving gracefully, but not alive.
Leaves enjoy…
The wind.
But not,
Being dry and buried.
Being stabbed with a rake.
In a pile.
But they are too far from their tree to care.
I get depressed sometimes.
I could be a poet.
This September.
There is a car speeding past a leaf, and the leaf gets tossed around again.
This September.
I am a poet, somehow.
This life is about things.
Getting smaller again.
This September.
A leaf that is small, and dead.
I am a poet, once again.
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