the pages say it's autumn.
i see my reflection in lake's bottom.
seasons of consequence had me telling myself i'd never be this person again.
but as i cross the street,
and crunch the leaves,
it's as if the chill
left time standing still.
i would've thought winter's solitude
springtime's suffocation
and summer's stagnancy
would have moved me to change.
yet as i swoop the sleeves of my sweater over my congealed palms
and watch the graying clouds whisk by with a wistful gaze,
i observe the active repetition of my mistakes.
i have the plan in my head
and the rake in my hand,
yet for some dubious reason
i cannot leave where i stand.
