There's no way to mimic
someone else's life,
have someone else's childhood
watching you
for authenticity.
Children can sniff that out,
you know, even if they can't
express it. Maybe because
they can't express it.
Yet every year, you travel farther
from your childhood
trying to become
adept with words in order to
articulate
who you no longer are.
Parable of a log
burning to ashes.
Parable of a sweatshirt
with a hood to hide in.
Parable of autumn, in which
the leaves display their
hidden colors
before they drop.
Everything around you
is articulating
wordlessly.
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