rolling - just written


                        the shorter and shorter days
                   roll through late November
                   trees disrobe from their brilliant
                   coats of colors to bare

                   their intricate skeletons
                   to the cold wind and the glancing
                   sun and here we sit in summer
                   attire and shiver from the lack

                   of synchronicity of body heat
                   and the increasingly cold and brutal
                   world and our words blow off
                   away into the wind before

                   their sounds and their meanings
                   reach each other’s ears as we all,
                   the days and our bodies and our selves,
                   roll towards our discontented winter

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