POETRY

When

painting by the author

I was young, and autumn seemed to last months, from the first days of school, finally gasping out at Thanksgiving, in New England, where it becomes its own holiday, and you could drive north with a girlfriend into deeper, redder places, the dog wearing a t-shirt and leaping from leaf pile to leaf pile

All the things that never happened

When will a leaf land on my shoulder, pause for a moment as we recognize each other, and then continue falling, taking me along?

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