In Fall
In fall, Boomer Halloweens produce orange and black memories;
will I ever outgrow treat-laden bags and glowing pumpkins?
Van Gogh's flaming handiwork draws crowds in the Blue Ridge;
he paints the trees, but God does the skies.
The slanting sunlight creeps up my back,
its lengthening rays whispering “snow.”
Manic animals off their meds gather food.
Stashes forgotten, they must follow winter's diet.
Sleep comes early to me now.
In fall.
Copyright © Mary Rotman | Year Posted 2015
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