So
have I got to be dead before you read me?

The poet said if you
don't feed me, you don't need me,

I'll get a job at Walmart
that'll do for a start
it's better than
panhandling on the turnpike,

I might get on my bike
go off to war
fight,
I might,
but dragons scare me when
they're not windmills.

So many hills to climb,
much easier for me
if you can find the time
to feed my need for you to read
before
my time is up.

Crisp
apple cider air

October
it's finally here

leaves
and other things

at the end
of their string

with acceptance
comes dignity

honor
and most surely

peace

whit howland © 2021

til the air jumps into your lungs
the trees of gold and crimson
are a blur and swims in your dreadlocks
your heart’s a blaring boombox

Run! Girl Run!
past the corner store
til sweat seeps from your pores
don’t look back
run wild as the wind

Run! Girl Run!
with the steam of a locomotive
the fire in your feet explosive
cut yourself from him
he's just a broken limb

Run! Girl Run!
over his lies
leaving skid marks
on his oversized ego
he's only a placebo you're taking
he's moss
shake him off

Ah, the fallacy
in talk of tree limbs
and fragments of the broken-apart.

                     Those scars opened a rare window
                     below the cloud tops
                     and into her room,
                     where a new dress of fallen leaves
                     hung in her wardrobe,
                     fleshing out her understanding
                     of how that blemish
                     lingered long enough for
                     her own intentions,
                     hidden behind the frown,
                     to surface.

The myth in her eyes
wishing they could say,
"Might we share this fall together?"