In autumn, wind would shake the flowing trees, And we would turn to homework and to hope; Our backpacks on our stronger shoulders draped Through slippery and colder days and hours Into the halls that echoed with the din Of morning greetings; scents of girl's perfume As down fluorescent hallways we would stream, Seeing none, yet hoping to be seen. And something called a "bell" would ring, although It was more like a firehouse alarm: We sank into our desks, already lost, Defeated by the day before it'd start, The bleariness of youth, still charging on. A type of haunted-ness under those lights, -- Maybe our Halloweens all started there! -- That so much life could feel so lost and dead. Yet hope, I said, was what we used for fuel: And so we did, at lunch or back in halls Where conversations spoke of our real hopes Whether of love or comic-books or sports Or maybe some of each of them. For we Took autumn and its rain and all its weight On that spare shoulder each of us had kept For when we could our own desires allow The space to run, out past the path and leaves, Out past the walls and classes to the fields Where we were meant to play, were meant to be And that we'd find one day, when we got out.
(10 minutes. For more Nano Poblano goodness, click here.)