Talking to Myself

Beherding birds along the way to work,
rehearsing words out loud to no one’s ear,
bemused I dance a little to the perk
of autumn peppering the atmosphere
with crisp incursions into trees and dreams,
lancets like hummingbirds imbibing sage.
Considering myself I note what seems
the rub: I never learned to act my age.

October is for birds to leave and leaves
to turn, but what am I supposed to do?
The season winds to winter and deceives
with death suggestion, but in fact the view
is wonderful, the temperature is mild,
and I’m as manifold as any child.

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