An old Polish neighborhood in Autumn…

he’d look out the window at trees changing colors over night…one day green…the next gold and red with rust as well…kept a diary about it…called, Leaves…

and every day the old man would check to see what new colors had come…marked ’em down beside the date…a record of Autumn’s splendor…

this was the time of year pop looked most forward to…chilly nights and sweater days under cloudy skies…sippin’ coffee…listenin’ to children play over at the Catholic school…dodge ball…flag football…kids runnin’ and laughin’ on the blacktop playground…girls linin’ up for hopscotch…bandaids on their knees…

alone he would sit and witness the season passin’…cross guards stoppin’ cars…yards bein’ raked by old women in long skirts and stockin’ caps…ankles thick…Polish and Lithuanian accents from them in broken English…oxtail soup will be served tonight…

he watches from his upstairs rented room…a neighborhood wrapped in Fall…given to him by a god who still listens…for this he is thankful…for he knows that winter will come soon…bare trees…snow shovels in hand…and again his favorite season has come and gone…

and the days dwindle down to a precious few…oh if November could last forever….

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