They are the hangers on, the last leaves of autumn,
long, narrow and red-orange, they seem out of place
in the wilds of February, frustrating winter,
who is accustomed to dominating the landscape
with its bleakness.
You have an affinity for these persistent colors,
a survivor of a long winter of your own,
a handful of them, each enough to cover you,
make you lose yourself in that same bleakness.
But here you are. In February. Battered by the winter,
Frostbite and scars more raw than you would like,
but still screaming color. Insisting on it.
Claiming it from the chasm of loss and loss and loss again,
About this poem.
Actually, I am frustrated with myself and trying to learn some new things in new software. I am generally very, very good with technology, but I just can’t quite get my arms around this and it is driving me crazy.
But I have been frustrated with myself before. I have been in the depths before. I have done fine and will do fine. I wrote this poem to remind myself. There’s tons of undertones and history in it, but I won’t bore you with that.
Be well. Travel wisely,