A first draft poem that finally sums up what I've felt a long time about autumn. Unlike almost everything else I've ever written, it pieced itself together in a matter of minutes. I'm happy with it for now.
That Which Belongs To Both
The crisp green that belongs to
both
fall and spring is at the tops of the trees.
Have you ever noticed that spring spreads
from the bottom up, as fall does from the top down?
As if each lives out the verb with which it shares a name.
A certain few weeks each year,
a photo can’t capture whether or not
the green is coming or going. All looks the same,
like pictures of sunrises and sunsets—I never could tell them apart.
Something about that sameness
in ending and beginning is comforting, I think.
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