weathered

the clouds keep repeating

their self portrait, in a sort of dementia

that won't remember us, either.

you watched their anti-

evolution until "blue" was

a shape, always beside

itself in its geometry.

the foliage, like a blackboard

full of goodbye messages, chalked up

our nostrils with its erasure,

lecturing us on the virtues of the fall,

on moving along without a thought.