Paris is so beautiful, that it’s emotional,
like the red tile roofs of Rome,
or the Kenroku-en gardens of Japan.

It’s a relatively large world.
Whenever you can fly over an ocean
you feel limitless, and godly,
like the world is there for you, on demand.

Speaking of God-like views, I’m headed
to Lisa’s (parents) Manhattan highrise again
this year for Thanksgiving—six, very-long days
from today—and I have to wait—but I can’t wait.

I’m starting to stuff things into my bag, like a turkey.
There are so many holiday things to do in Manhattan.
Things that invariably whip you up for a sparkly Christmas.
But these are only commercial attractions—planned distractions.

One frosty November-break morning, two years ago,
a tide of clouds had rolled in, like a trillion tons of cotton
candy had been dumped on New York city, overnight,
filling it up to the 42nd floor. It glistened there, below us,
in the klieg-bright sun, like Tiffany diamonds on cotton.

So, imagine that, then add a flock of geese, in military-like
v-formation flying just at the crest of the glitter, like dolphins
hopping in and out of the waves, as they passed above the
insignificant works of man. It took my breath away.

So, naturally I grabbed for my fancy phone with its super-duper,
high-res camera. The snaps did the glorious scene poor justice—
the majestic, wild geese came out as dots on glare.

I’m watching things carefully this year, not just the multicolor, cachet, window displays on Fifth Avenue and the decorations at the Chelsea Market (where Oreos were invented). I’m going to capture this year
—every intense, emotional second—with that most unreliable, 3D
gadget of all—Memory.
.
.
A song for this:
Holiday Road by Lindsey Buckingham

Suddenly it was November.
And it felt like the chance to be happy
was lost.
Shriveled and fragile,
as the slowly rotting leaves still clinging to trees.

The last rose petals fall to the ground
leaving the rosehips bare
as autumn’s chill again comes around
to strip blooms that had been fair.
The rosehips have hairs all wiry and grey
that also break off, one by one.
Her color is gone, she fades away
until this rose lady’s season is done.
Her petals arrayed on frosty soil
decay gently in the cold rain
while in her hips, seeds are born
to bring forth new roses again.

What happened to the little boy
that I once knew so well?
He’d greet each new day with unfettered joy
and wave the last one farewell.

When oaks and maples began to turn
and the leaves had started to fall
the boy happily switched the TV on and yearned
for the return of his game of football.

Somewhere along this growing boy’s way
he became a great deal like me:
I wake and walk to the mirror today
to see where that boy used to be.

Now I cling to every last leaf
that falls from the branches up high
while stretching the days that are now too brief
as the winter comes rapidly nigh.

This fresh coat of paint
You brushed thick across the leaves,
when there’s wind, it drips.