October was one long, scribbled to-do list.
May the leaves fall in November.
Unlisted
One morning I wake and minutes have quit their hour and bronzed magnolia leaves float softly to the ground—vertical demands fall from the page to drift with the day’s current . . . when gain (and love) aren't itemized, puzzled together with calculated prowess, meeting their maximums—they aren't bound to a single stem downward, when forgetting or suspending is measure of a root's growth, but instead life lives welled, spilling over from spirit twirling in timeless air—and the latest list, boasting in its own checked rows, succumbs instead to the gravity of prose—a faith-step forward, left to right, west to east, a shift with the sun’s shadows, a surrender to the winds. Today a friend is sick and I make dinner and what the time could have been never mattered and is not remembered, so as leaves fall and are swept into some untraveled nook, the roar of a new river, or the mystery of a pageless book, I run the plains.
For more of my poetry, check out my latest collection, All the Untils.
Read
’s latest review of it here: All the Untils Review
Thank you, Lee! I needed this line: "what the time could have been never mattered and is not remembered"