Forty years and the summer is over.
The raincoat and Wellington boots
are slowly catching up with the time
measured with the ochres of withered
leaves sticking to the soles, while hands
in pockets, still not ready for a cane,
are clutching the pebbles emitting
the last of the sunny riverbank warmth
until the first frost doffs its fedora
to the autumn foliage cadaver.
Envy is a hard pill to swallow. Even a glass of summer rain does not help, although I try hard
to shower my conscience with its patter. There is always that distinct possibility that, by birth,
I am simply a bad person—if we follow the scriptures, of course, and overlook the simplistic
depiction. But I would rather reach for an umbrella and Wellington boots to survive one more
life outside your windows. After all, envy brought me here, so it cannot be that bad.
hidden pilcrow 