​Memories of you
fall away
like autumn leaves,
like ashes,
following summer’s
Fall onto piles
of skeletons, 
piles of long-dead
embers that once glowed
red and gold.
Now they lie forgotten,
unnoticed, and
trampled underfoot,
added to the
compost pile,
where the leftovers
and scraps are put.
Or scraped off
on the welcome mat
like dog mess
clinging to my soles,
an unwelcome reminder
of life’s lack of control.
All things in their season.
Whatever that is
supposed to mean.
Why can’t love be

M. Zane McClellan

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