Glance, glimpse, gleam
a form of déjà vu
Following up on
the flippancy of flowers
I recall why metaphors are rare
In this neck of the woods.
There are no similes — implied or crucified —
Nothing like or as, except perhaps
An emptiness that remains
Empty of content, direction, frivolity.
In the turning of the leaves
We have a half-metaphor for a half-life
Spent well or spent badly but…