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so quietly (John Bailey - Autumn, A Haiku Year)
Someone’s tripped over the buckets of paint up in the sky again, and they spilled them. All, on the trees, painting them red and yellow, and rust and orange and purple…
Half of the town is dressed in orange – and some of the kitchens. Pumpkin pie, and dips and frosting on the cupcakes for yesterday’s parties.
Smiley orange faces are grinning from lit porches, awaiting laughing and carefree children.
What’s that, I wonder? That spot, on the skin, right above my shoulder blade?! Oh, a dry patch! Must apply moisturizer to whole body again. A (not so) friendly reminder …
Touching the grocery cart and opening your car door reminds you with a jump - literally: metal things shock fake fiber sweaters. They must be …
The nose gets cold when mornings open the doors to a new week. Must grab a jacket. Brr! – that chill in the air.
The Produce section at the store reeks of fresh, ripe muscadines. Fresh new cider is pouring in wine glasses at wineries.
The yard is finally quiet. The outside A/C unit is silent. Gas bill is up.
Headlights shine in the night on wind chasing large oak leaves like stray, hurried cats, into a run to nowhere.
It’s snowing leaves again. All over town. It’s windy. Quiet. Melancholy.
The dimmer switch is on again. The light in the afternoons is softer, ever so quiet and silky. Not sharp anymore. “The sun has lost its gusto” – mom says.
The cats sleep in again. They cuddle.
The swish in the trees is back. And nightfall comes faster. Time for soup and warm biscuits again. And all the harvest candles to be brought up from closets.
It’s fall. Another year’s getting ready to pass into yesterday …
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