Poem 54: October on a Napkin, Somewhere

You don't need to tell me

I'm mediocre, white;

I know that in our brief seasons,

We lose our green and become

Vibrant and hallow, we sing

Red, gliding into orange.

Who should I blame

For just standing here,

Romanced by stone walls?

Fire, fire is the answer.

I am in love with my own

Falling.