August 25
AUTUMN
The falling leaves slap my hand as I ride the road at fifty miles per, my arm dangling
The trees are shedding their masquerade
Exposed they stand stark, stripped
Naked to the soul
The growth of this year's yearning waves on the fringe
I can follow this lead
Remove pretense not clothing
Stand before all who have an interest in seeing me
Unashamed of my wants
And the things I reach for
I can cast off the uniform of evolution
And enjoy a long winter of truth
Do what you do.
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