The petals of sleep unfurled and I bloomed from the sepals of my bedsheets.
I pulled on two boots
and walked.
As my soles soldered trees' tears to the sidewalks
and I circumvented spills of rain I reflected:
What I love is the silhouettes of leaves burned into the concrete;
the romance of autumn
begins with the clouds.

Raina says the clouds here aren't like clouds anywhere else.
Our clouds are too dramatic, stomping around in capricious moods
and refusing to comply with predictions. Like teenagers,
they experiment with everything,
redressing themselves into
faint ripples,
feather bed disasters,
whip cream castles,
and mashed blackberry storms.

It's the clouds that bring the rain.
The rain welds the leaves to the concrete,
pins them in adoration to the sidewalks, in rapture to the edges of driveways.
When the rain departs in bitterness the leaves are left to rust,
clinging to the concrete in desperation.
The wind fills the emptiness and carries the leaves off
into a rebound romance.

All that's left are the stains
where the leaves have kissed the sidewalks.

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A/N: It's the truth. My favourite part of autumn is the silhouettes of leaves ironed onto the sidewalks. Some mornings I really do wake up with the residue of poetry in my mouth, and I have to struggle the rest of the day to simultaneously hold on to that taste and to not lose my hold on mechanical reality.