Tints of autumn flutter to the ground.
It’s the perennial season of loss.
Time is supposed to conquer all,
yet grief has more power.
This cool season of loss
repeats like a nightmare—
grief has larcenous power
like a tree’s reach thick and tall
looming outside your window, a nightmare
where even the innocent are not safe
from the thick reach
breaking the paned glass.
Not even the innocent are safe,
though, who is really innocent?
Inside, we are all broken
fragments we hold together to make whole.
None of us are innocent.
We try to conquer time,
to hold it at bay and pretend we are whole.
Yet it always loosens our grip and we fall to the ground.