That dog-eared, marked-up 12-page manuscript
on the wall gets changed again tonight for
a revised version with page numbers shifted
and the title respelled. I’ve seen a lot of these
restockings a handful of sunrises after hanging
of Christmas stockings on the day this slim volume’s
denouement says we’re supposed to. Then, The End.
I thought about this construct for a long time,
while counting all the so-called Mondays to Fridays
and how many full leaf-falls until I can scribble
my own manuscript full of leaves. Recently I figured out
I’m not as old as these calendars say I am
simply because a certain number of Septembers
fell like any other pages from the trees.