top of page
Writer's picture13days13shorts

You Too by hil hoover

We step out into the air of autumn, 

not dressed quite right because of 

course we’re those kind of people, 

press chilly hands against each 

other’s sides for the tease of it,

slip a moment of joy into the 

too-bright noontime, 

too-quickly-gone.


The days for speaking to the 

dead are coming soon, 

our feast with empty places 

set at the table, the thin veils 

we seek to pierce for one 

last word with someone, 

one first word we didn’t 

get to say.


But before us is the true decline 

into death, into darkness, into 

everything that must rot before 

the buds of spring: 

the sudden turning of a leaf 

in the air, already turned crisp 

and loose, the baby teeth of a

year past its prime falling

out, similarly blood-colored, 

similarly built for messy 

playing. 


I call this my favorite season

despite the fact that every year

I barely survive it, 

the fevers, the seizures, the 

allergies that send every 

illness into overdrive, 

because look around you, 

look at this world readying itself

to become something else. 


Feel how easy it is to ground

in this cool breeze, in the drying grass

around your feet,

or to remain ungrounded, unfettered,

float down with the leaves and lie

still, imagine yourself beneath the

earth, you too 

a thing that must rot 

for the world to grow. 

9 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Comments


bottom of page