A Scrapbook of Autumn
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I cut out September, daubed it with paste,
And stuck it
On the white vastness of the page.
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It may seem strange
To commemorate a month in this way:
Tearing it from the calendar
And
Hiding it between pages three and five.
It may seem strange
To commemorate a month at all.
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What people usually remember are
Moments:
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.
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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.
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Moments are as brief as ghosts.
They flicker in the mind
And
Burn on the tongue,
And then they're gone.
The future taste of ashes.
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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.