All along the avenues tainted leaves of autumn are falling
And a maniacal wind whispers a mournful tune; the sun is barely a child
That waddles in from the cold as summer fades into a dark chasm
Leaving invisible fingerprints on the windowpane of desire.
Then you will know what will be and how many steps it takes to get there
From where you are going. Then you will learn the mystery of trees
And where a leaf grows. Until then, make use of the colors at your window's
Edge.

There, too, will be the bumper cars in carnivals ridden when you were
seventeen
And burnished was your hair in the fanciful light of youth when boys
Bothered you somewhat by their misanthropic miasma and assortments
Of voodoo dolls and shrunken heads; girls your age were none the wiser
For they dabbled in games of gossip behind the gymnasiums with grim
Regrets
And they lied in order to tell the truth about themselves. All the time you were
Preparing to move forward into the new ideology of rain,

Past the mundane and trying to keep time while circumventing inarticulate pain
With the wave of a crimson handkerchief. Then the world shrank away from
You
Into a tiny, fuzzy ball of film and residue that collapsed not only on itself
But also on you and then slithered away like an innocuous garden snake.
Yes, those were pristine days when we stood beneath holistic skies
Wondering whether we would be here another year or not. Now I see
How crystalline clear it all can be six feet under a wave, free falling.