Trollop


Warmed by my steaming coffee mug,
I gaze out the window.
Yet another Autumn has crept in.
Trees, having lost the bloom of Spring,
and full clad green dignity of summer,
paint themselves garishly,
to seduce.
I have to admire the brazenness,
so late in season.
I apply my makeup,
mascara, blush, and the red lipstick,
of which I have recently grown so fond.
I slip on a gaily print dress over silk lace.
Stepping out the front door I inhale crisp Autumn air.
Gone is the lilac and apple blossom scent of Spring,
and the hot sidewalk, fresh mowed grass scent of Summer.
I also have abandoned the sweet perfumes,
preferring the clean scent of soap.
First fallen leaves crunch under my feet
as I cross the lawn to my car,
brilliant in my purple.
I salute an old maple,
ancient sentinel of the walk.
She is resplendently uniformed in canary yellow and scarlet hue.
Me too old girl, I say.
Me, too.

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