A Scrapbook of Autumn


I cut out September, daubed it with paste,

And stuck it

On the white vastness of the page.


It may seem strange

To commemorate a month in this way:

Tearing it from the calendar


Hiding it between pages three and five.

It may seem strange

To commemorate a month at all.


What people usually remember are


Pieces of time.

They tear them out of the everyday flow

And bury them in scrapbooks.

That way

When time comes looking for its lost parts,

They can claim

Plausible deniability.


Why remember a moment

When you can have the entire month?

Time is oblivious.

I don't think it could take an entire year back,

Even if you hid it out in the open

Or under the parlor rug.


Moments are as brief as ghosts.

They flicker in the mind


Burn on the tongue,

And then they're gone.

The future taste of ashes.


Months are longer,

And they're sold in bulk.

I bought a twelve-pack of months

The other day.

So far I've only used September.

I'll add the other ones to my scrapbook in time.

Unlike moments,

They aren't in a rush to pass,

And neither am I.