August 19

It’s not your body, though that certainly fails,
nor how you were born, nor raised. It’s the weight
with which you lay across our days. The leaves
that were rich and green before light slipped

off at an angle, retarding the chemicals
that kept us growing. It’s your holidays,
deep, black and orange, thick with syrup,
growing cold. It’s falling that makes you old.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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