where the writers are

August 25




The falling leaves slap my hand as I ride the road at fifty miles per, my arm dangling

The trees are shedding their masquerade

Exposed they stand stark, stripped

Naked to the soul

The growth of this year's yearning waves on the fringe

I can follow this lead

Remove pretense not clothing

Stand before all who have an interest in seeing me

Unashamed of my wants

And the things I reach for

I can cast off the uniform of evolution

And enjoy a long winter of truth

  Do what you do.