We all fall down,
on the grassy fields.
Falling after our dogs,
to catch a Frisbee or in love
on Boston’s uncommon Commons.
.
Softened by dim light, we immerse
into the shadows of elms
painting sunset’s gold gleam
on our vision, painting
autumn’s fading in our features.
.
While the blue gray swirl of steam
collects in the graveyard
and we fall into despair
begging parents “let me go home
I’m so very tired…”
.
Or fall into dreams among chrysanthemums
where we hold ourselves to ideals
of what and who we could be
and take into ourselves the being
of the gallant of history and lead.