Ode to a tentative forever

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October and red halves of dried leaves. 

Pockets of ponds from retreating rains and mighty ships made of cellophane. Poetry scribbled in backs of books. 

Flashing numbers of forgotten friends. They come from times that are now ghost towns. 

October and blue shadows on playgrounds. Sweet children with lollies and slices of oranges. 

A sun that seems to melt and harden into a North Star against a theatrical blank canvas. The sky is bizarre. The sky is the sky. 

October and deep loves. October and deep memories of deep loves. October and deep wounds caused by the deep memories of deep loves. 

October and music. October and hope. October and the year has not yet ended. 

October and the year has not yet begun. Yet October and a returning of some kind is happening. October and hope’s final address. October and hope’s last destination. 

October and the lost gypsy of our dreams and the tribe of nomadic fears have finally come home. October the cemetery of a careless summer. 

October and red halves of dried leaves.