Summer was a warm and
generous, if
somewhat of a two-
bit painter—until
it started taking those
pills of moonlight
and stiff droughts
of good sleeping weather.
Now, it has taken
to calling itself
Autumn—
to smoking constantly, and
behaving a lot
more recklessly; with fulsome
abandon, it
darkens every corner
and highlights
every singe and freckle. Albeit
brilliantly, it smudges light
sources, messily
blurs all the edges,
and dismisses its subjects with waved
hands, insisting that—
no, it doesn't really care
one way or the other
what color
your energy is. The only
question now
is—which color is it
turning?
