Wet tonight, treading on the bodies

of dead leaves, uneven shapes under my feet

of gold and brown dimly glimpsed;

the rain makes the air warm, and I don’t mind

the walk—tired, hungry, but listening

to the croak of frogs greeting the winter rain,

grateful that this is only rain and not snow,

the soft white presence of my childhood

that drowned out sound and sight;

and yet this time of year I yearn

for that white blindness and the cover

to all that is decaying and dead

in cool blankets of forgetfulness.


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