September Poems (2023)

Whisking Drizzle

The gray returning;
with its arrival blossoms
comfort.

The lack of color
in the sky—
less vibrant, less scalding,
a cool breeze wades
through the
dying summer air.

It's vital I step outside
and clear my head, now;
the sky is raining.

More specifically, drizzling—
so lightly, the wind shifts
the precipations' trajectory
midair,
and the flaky drops dance
like sparks rising and scattering
from a spinning saw
meeting metal.

I'm tired of who I am—

a rough sketch with lines constantly being erased
and redrawn;
overly critical of everyone
but myself.
The second I move towards who I want to be,
I lose him, repetitively.
Just this morning I had reset my focus on that person;

now his presence scatters
like the whisking drizzle,
sparkling and scattering
to the autumn breeze.