Dear Time and All,
The day grows rose scratches, succulent tomatoes, weird thru clouds from sun or what we know. Autumn asks for hay, apples, rising dark, and the beams of everything together. It doesn’t matter who does what but the season cannot be silly. Imperious moonlight becomes just reflection. The day makes a beat.
Some of us tire from the simplest, tho gorgeous remains on our eyes. No room remains at the cemetery, long words lack effect. Because gloom seems idyllic, and Stone has such a voice, we make farewells seem frosty with spirit. We know we go on, even when the leaves in the road swirl without realistic import.
The sport continues. Family melts into stone, stone so near. Drums tell. A flash of time and immediate guff. Winds weep the turning sky.
Ghosts fill the cavern tho a sky of cantons seems insistent. Rocks carry voices, voices carry time. Small words tell rock, what we meant after all. Busted words meet in the end, and an urge to salute.
Signing off as a friend, loose are the waves,
A
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