October 7, 2011

the sky is a city that drops it’s quiet on our heads. The world is ever-autumn, always almost dusk with a taste of something about to change but never changing. And we run as children run, until our bodies heave with life and the struggling spirit of realizing we were left behind. And we are truly frightened only by ourselves. And we are truly poets on these streets.

Everywhere is just a block from home. And home is only memory, like waking from your favorite dream. And we scream out all our stories so the night can play along and the night is like a promise and a smile. And we stay because we know somewhere a block away mom is making dinner. And she is there, lit in gold and green, humming a quiet song in the kitchen window, her hands smart and busy and we know she’ll never change. And dad is in his study making noises to himself, forever working at a goal he cannot reach.

And so we play our role, glad to be the strong and proud imperfect. Glad to kick the ball and dance in rain and make strange jokes. Glad to make them proud and make them worried.

Our worth changes as we grow… And as we grow we learn to understand the priceless consequence of what it was to keep us. And autumn curls itself around the world each year and us inside the kitchen window, gold and green. Us inside to look out and remember what we are and from what beauty we were formed.


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