Today I looked out my window and some bright red leaves fluttered at me, red as you please. My oak tree was saying, “I’m wearing my flashy red dress!
Fall is coming and I’m not green any more, and I’m not even gold
And I’m heading towards brown
And soon I’ll be falling off and floating away.
But until then I’m wearing my red, dammit.
Red as the lipstick on a woman who does not give one damn whose collar it gets on.
Red as the red-beating blood of high-heeled flamenco.
There is a nip in the air
And it’s the right kind of nip.
Indian summer and cinnamon spice and fires to start.
We’re holding onto those last rays of summer
And stoking them up hot.
Watch me flutter, girl.
And go get your red on too.”