of winter’s curses—just
embarrassed to say out loud
that I’m jealous of these
gaunt crowds
of autumn trees
which possess such
that I’m jealous of these
gaunt crowds
of autumn trees
which possess such
vaunted freedoms not
accorded to the likes of me.
It's a silent invective, or
It's a silent invective, or
so it seems—their choice
to just stand around all day
and, whenever they’re
ready, die in
and, whenever they’re
ready, die in
public so spectacularly—
knowing,
without ever having
learned or forgotten,
that another turn is bound
to come—
then go—then
come again, come
what may—and that,
even if the next one
isn’t strictly
“theirs,” it
might as well be.
