Husks of white grass, in crooked, hundred-meter rows, like Her sweater's stripes.
Sun seeps through the fog. It warms the dewy concrete path And the slick brown leaves. My hands finally feel cold, When I ride my bike to work Before the sun is up.
I watch the sun set, sinking, red, just past the clouds, Grandma on my mind. Guided by the bright colors dancing 'round the sun, the leaves: they dance too. Ash flies all around.