15. Stand or Fall

The scattered leaves of memory
suddenly whirl upward, and I can hear them -
many of them - browning and tattered,
crisp and crumbling interspersed
with an occasional brilliance
of color- orange and
maple red.

Like Mickey the Bus Driver who saw and
understood something about it -
going much further than he had to
to protect them and their bright and fragile parcel
from the cold slush and grimy snow
of winter there.

Maybe he wanted to be me then,
I was young and burning - hell,
I even wanted to be me,
for once.

There's a cover charge for looking back.
A price to pay for what you say.
The dull and terrible cost of silence.