on knowing people whose first language is not this one

step outside

the breeze is blowing

wisps of cirrus cloud

the sky is blue

the geese are leaving

farewell

we say

and don't mean it

mean it please for once

the turning leaves will thank you

the world was gray and cold when i rolled out of bed,

the first frost of the season just barely

kissing the ground. i tied the morning 

into shoelace knots and hugged forgiveness to my chest.