the leaves of autumn

sprinkle down the tinny

sound of little dyings

and skies sated

of ruddy sunsets

or roseate dawns

roil ceaselessly in

cobweb greys and turn

to black

for comfort.


Only lovers

see the fall

a signal end to endings

a gruffish gesture alerting

those who will not be alarmed

that we begin to stop

in order simply

to begin



Poetry Ptuesday: Late October by Maya Angelou
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