i cannot stop time. wicked autumn has arrived in the suburbs where i live, and in the morning the leaves are freezing solid on the branches and i'm so ten years ago all of a sudden. that blonde hair in the jagged wind. that torn blue jeans jacket that always smelled like dying lilacs. those brown corduroy pants worn out at the knees, the ones i would wear everyday in october with candy corn stuffed into the front pocket. that bus i would ride in the morning to work listening to sarah mclachlan. that poem i was always erasing and starting over in my journal. flash forward and i can't get a pulse on the moment. i'm still taking an antibiotic that makes me feel like i'm sleepwalking through the day. i drink ceylon tea. i have conversations about artists with mary. i look at the geese flying low over the pond. i feel like my head is scraping the overhung grey clouds. i read a poem about a doppelganger and i dream about my own ghost shadow that i keep tripping over again and again. the leaves are painfully yellow. almost transparent. my house is surrounded by them and i'm struck by their poignant color. i come home from work, sit on my front porch stoop where the yellow leaves have fallen, and listen for the cold rustle on the lawn, the wind that could almost knock down my little cedar house.
