I am in the autumn leaves,
the aroma of a passing season,
the space between lines of days
dripping from edges with sounds of
violins mentioning my name.
All paths look similar, like dream faces pulled from
clouds; the sun marks me in the last
of warmth.
I am somewhere like a bookmark
between pages of thoughts, on a beach of youth,
tan, bristling with carelessness.
Waves of day splash cold emerald-green
surrounding my ankles on a shoreline of where
I should be.
Roger Singer 