It was fall.
That’s when I called you, in nineteen ninty eight. That’s the way your wisdom always would resign to me.
It’s fall today.
The way the leaves fall, like my scales, and the minutes cascade. A promise of freedom from the trees they have grown from.
I told you a story then,
That nobody would comprehend, about the crazy that you effortlessly welcomed.
It’s fall today, and,
The leaves descend again, meaning soon the blooms will storm overnight, more brilliantly and bold than they did the year before.