What is it about gloom and an overcast sky
    that calls back from buried remembrances
    shadows of a discarded past folded like linen
    tacked neatly into closets, camphorated, and
    forgotten in dark attics until the next funeral?
    Small consolation that these leaves transform
    into a bravura of rainbow colours before fall
    claims them from their trembling branches.

    Blown off with the winds to places unknown,
    would anyone recall how they sheltered birds,
    worms, held nests in the fork of twigs, even
    wayward kites? A fanfare of cricket songs,
    however cacophonic, forms part of a memory
    when even the bark of a whimpering mongrel
    or the monotone of a midnight owl remind
    us of walks in the dark trying to get home on a
    drunken tune whistled and yelled to the moon:

    “I got a little drink, it went to my head. Show
    me the way to go home!” I did not get there.

    — Albert B. Casuga

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