Out of Season

Doesn’t it seem like fall?

The way we are scurrying about in the early darkness,

in the first frights of cold,

in the aftermath of honesty.

 

Doesn’t it seem like fall?

That all sun seems inappropriate,

And the day is only a countdown,

until it all disappears completely.

 

Doesn’t it seem like fall?

That a hug at all is like a sip of heat from

a porcelain mug,

a temporary warmth to the soul, the body

that eventually turns cold again.

 

Doesn’t it seem like fall?

As we wait for the last vestige of  love

completely detach from  its base,

and fade into the absolute,

deathly gray of

over.

Copyright © 2013 Nichelle Calhoun

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4 thoughts on “Out of Season

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