Winged Messenger

You can hear them in the trees, and
even without a calendar, we know the
pavement has just become the
Styx, and the season Charon's smile.

Admiring the sun from the inside,
I play games with myself.
Hopscotch with my tiles,
tennis with my dogs,
basketball with my wadded up
spent imagination.

But the other half has drawn my ire today.
South, further south than my feet can carry,
the cold wintery chill of fall has come
and gone and in its place left
a deep mark of envy.
I cannot help but think that the
mirrorme is looking into his
screen, and imagining
a place where the sidewalks
scorch the soles of Mercury.

So, sound on, devoted drones of
Verano. I would rather you than
Frost.

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