Vespers in gloaming light

Zippy Autumn

It’s chilly October, the leaves are in the gutters. 
No one can say they didn’t warn you. 
It comes every year, (you should know this by now)-the falling of it all. 
Don’t you think often of the time before? 
When falling leaves and broken banisters and chipping paint were someone else’s problem.
All you had to worry about was how late you were sleeping,
how many pancakes you were eating,
to put on your coat when you went out to play. 
Do you remember playing for so long that your hands would get cold and your nose would turn red and you almost longed to go back to the warmth of inside, even if it meant no more playing for the day? 
I do.
You must too.
Dream back on the time before, when Autumn was an explosion of color and a time of mystery. 
Every shadow a ghost, every eerie sound a message from the great beyond.
Instead of what it is now: a reminder.
That we don’t get to be here forever.
That a year can change so much.
That, even though we tried to stop it, we are now the man on the ladder digging wet leaves out of the gutters; while a new group below is playing with their coats bellowing like great sails, no matter how many times  they were told to zip up. 

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