New York City circa 1960s
Leaves flew. Snow. Rain changed
the street to an angry stream.
Or sad. Our boots or soggy
shoes pressed us on.
Come on! Come on!
And on we went,
the low window beside our flying feet,
grimy with every season of our flying by,
that grabbed our fleeting glance to frame for
those of us who deigned to look askance, the woman
bent over the reckoning of paper strips upon which she
sewed buttons she’d culled
and polished, culled and
while all the while leaves flew. The snow. The rain rained. Sun came. Leaves flew …
Patricia H. O’Brien, OSPL
February 2, 2018
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