They told me
I wasn’t acting like the season.
This season is underripe
Undersaturated
The grapes are beads
Hanging
From massive limbs.
The rose buds
Are discolored
Pale
And bitter.
Upstairs the paint is melting off
In massive chips
The wall is revealed
Sun tanned
Jaded
And sad.
They told me
I wasn’t acting like the season.
This season is overripe
Acrid and moldy
Brown alcohol
Pooling at the bases
Of decorative pears.
The leaves
Are too old
Shedding ancient tears
And falling
In order to catch the ground
That is laying cold
Beneath you.