I have lost count, for how many times, I have walked this path.

Seems always at this time, in this season, a place away from it all, of many I have come to enjoying leaving to. Bear in thought, that walking away when things get too hard, there are just times, where it doesn’t matter.

On a lone bench of dark brown, it breaks away from all the other colors, scattered with some crispy fragile leaves of bright ruby, yellowish olive, and sharp orange. The grass still covered in dew of morning’s light, damping my now bare feet as they swing over it, tried eyes watching lazily, enjoying the silence.

That bright of a vivid fair sun beats down its heat, shining gateways to touch the ground; that mirror single that a singer on a stage would have, before singing with everything they had. There was a chill, calming, friction to skin and would be warm again, short-lived, but it was something, that was better than nothing.

That ringing before is subtle, but would likely come back, just as hear though, short-lived, to get by as always. Down farther on, off the path, a river high in flow, rushed with two weeks’ worth of rain, coming close to a thunder storm that held no bite of lighting.

Calming it was, always I thought, no troubles for a moment, seasons changing as always. Coming to mind, that if I have, sure a thought of it, won’t matter until the New Year, but why plan a little sooner, to say energy for the coming anew of a year.

A smile found its way, when remembering of how some people never understood, how one’s mind works, and in sometimes an answer should never be given. Even when at first time of spoken words, a wicker basket was thing that held at the end of it all. On a silent autumn like this, the bash words of a woman, whom I once called family before things took a turn.

Reminding me of how things do also change, people just take the longest, for they have the most will, to fight against it.

Certain people take time, people who understand fall smoothly like the leaves. Others stay put like a bolder, being pushed, until falling down hill, and having everything thrown at them only once, and leaving them to figure it out.

There are the jawbreakers, a term that a crazy wonderful person who wanting little to nothing with the outside world, called those of that are one color, small hints of speaks of other colors, but deep down, through many layers, we were what could be, for even getting to the colors are sweet, they are pain and take the most time, to get through certain moments of life.

At a young, trying and failing to master a wicker basket, simple words like that made everything clear, for there was no need to go overboard with people, it was sometimes best, to just tell them.

For this little park was once a home to that crazed family member’s clan, but were overpowered and had to move, few don’t come, for the fear what those souls before would do. Yet, I come for them, for those souls see me as them, unknowing what lies under my thin pale coat, until it’s too late.

For something that is skin deep, just as the silent autumn that gives farewell to summer, only to greet winter. Being both, but not all in others to see, of autumn is before it quickly comes, and quickly goes. Just trying to get by, trouble comes away in high gear, but luckily, the blows of hatred only last as long to others when watching a once summer leaf to meet winter ground, in peace.

Just as the seasons, forgive what is to come and in the past, but never forget. In oneself or others or just something random, it’s just how things are. If we try, like making a flipping wicker basket.

The End.

-Side Notes-

Doing another Thanksgiving Poem; subject is what are you least thankful for and is there a way of how to handle it your way. The numbers for responses are 28. PM me when you can, for the due date is on the day before Thanksgiving Day.

Even with a requested on going through, Paint a Picture Special is still open for others to see their favorite painter get their chance. PM me or comment below

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