she sighed and the air sighed with her
a mutual release of exhaustion and lyrical breath.
hair fell with the leaves and her lungs heaved,
creating winds that blew them far.
cooler air makes creaky bones
and the knowledge not to oil them.
what good comes from an easy step?
what muscle is gained from a lack of sense,
an arbitrary, deafeningly ordinary rhythm?
she knows not to answer nor to ask too much of the autumn
other than that it begins again
and again
and again.
Porcelain Prose 