It’s October, and we’ve got 31 days of who knows what in front of us.
Itchy sweaters and asters?
Imagine walking through falling leaves like tossed confetti, missing the green and komorebi.
Ignore the pumpkin spice lattes and the white girl in yoga pants.
It’s as if we all got old at breakneck speed.
If we were to succumb to falling like the leaves, turning like the leaves, and swirling like the leaves,
let’s do it gradually and gracefully.
I see 31 days of weary hearts and droopy eyes.
Into winter we tread, making our way through weeks of autumn and fall.
If and when we finally collapse, and our knees give in, can we just lie on our backs and follow the cracks in the ceiling?
I see 31 days of falling down and getting up, of clenched fists and uncertainty.
It’s October, but that might not have been a pep talk.