This is October, a four-

week long foreign country of

oddly-colored trees applauding drily

for the first winter’s breeze—

a land of polished gemstone day,

quick cold evening,

hoarfrost-gilded morning


the place where I was born,

to which I return to

celebrate the passing

 of another year, another

journey down this cathedral’s

corridor and where,



I’ll lie in my own bed, the

table at my bedside littered with

a handful of souveniers, a

slim volume of poetry,

and a few dry scattered leaves.


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