The seasons always change. And life will find a way.
—Sara Bareilles,
Cracked, the sidewalk,
and snapped, the branches,
and bent the dead weeds
with their shriveled leaves
weary like prayer flags spent.
Even the rocks are chipped
and the smell of decay
weaves into the breeze.
There is nothing on this
late autumn walk
that seems whole, which is to say
everything is broken together—
me, the weeds, the sad concrete—
even so this odd heart,
ripening out of season,
chooses to fall deeper in love
with the world, though the forecast
is for cold and getting colder.