When I’m in uncertain romantic scenarios, I write songs. In dating dryspells, I write poetry.
In Standard Time
The golden leaves clapped
Once I rose from
A roiled slumber that housed worry and concern.
A muted applause from behind the glass
And behind the now-naked Elm,
My usual greeter.
The Elm and I have a seasonal pact
Of weather intel
Until November when it goes to sleep
Sapped of life from my neediness.
So the golden leaves tell the story.
Now, they’re waving.