Fall

Dear Grandpa,

Like the rain that hits the paper-thin

Bursting sunrise, acoustic guitar leaves,

Curving off the fiery edges and leaving its

Brethren in its wake, I will meander amidst

The tastes of the days where these leaves will soon fall

And the overcasts will transform the blue canvas

Painted in summertime clouds into gray mass

And engulf the world in the small droplets

Of water that forms an aching scar along

The leaves and their freckled, flushed faces.

I will climb the final pine needled sprawled

Cement, receding in waves of churned soil,

Spurred by the drumming of the water

On the metal, the tin roof.

I will hear the plucking of worn, blemished

Guitar strings, rough and like pennies

And get a glimpse of salt water rain that eats

Up my vision until I can only make out

The clouds that swirl to the echoing

Strums of a song that you might play tomorrow.

They always move forward,

Just as I will drive on past the polished

Grave head that you sleep beneath.

I adjust the rearview mirror so I get

To stare at the paper ghost who flocks

To the rocks and I close my eyes until

The crimson swirls lull me to sleep

And I realize,

The clouds journey with me.