A Tall Doorway

Funny faces live on in photographs forever. But it's so difficult to recreate them. If it were up to me (which it clearly is not), time wouldn't be so much an ongoing burden and bringer of sadness, so much as a way out when one is needed. If I could only stop time (and occasionally rewind), then I would welcome it when it pushes through eras and into bold new frontiers. But I'm a speck, you're a speck...everyone's a specky speck. My frontiers and eras are laughable. But sometimes they seem pretty large to me. Anyways, a poem for another fall.

Dear fall,
How have you been?
You fell asleep and things got cold.
My bones grew brittle, my lungs air-tight.
A ghost came to me, maybe it wasn't a ghost.
It was too dark to tell.
And then the light came in and the scenes became warm.
But it wouldn't last. It couldn't.
I knew you would arrive soon because I saw the leaves fall.
You hurt them. But I'm over that. And soon they'll get over it too.
Promise not to be blunt. Be charming. Sit with me.
Don't act quickly, don't be a brick wall.
Be a tall doorway (painted a deep thick red). Lead in to something.
Inside something.
Fall? Are you even listening?
Geez.