Autumn was here in the hills and eyes of those who fasten their hair with sunlight. There was no step you could take without leaves crackling under the weight of your feet. I stood by the lake where floating leaves gather as if it was a mirror. I saw my round face and growing hair as if I had been given new eyes. This is me. The only I. That face, although sometimes more moon-like then the desired sharpness of other faces, it is how the world knows when to say my name.
I could have been born into anything, maybe a fish who is caught by the hook of fishermen or a bee who lives for only one season before being dead. I could have been born a huckleberry or a Maggie, instead I was born a girl named Amy with hair that won't hold a part and eyes that spill saltwater upon hearing I love you's.
Autumn was here on the postman's trail and in every whistling strand of wind. I watched the dog's fur be moved by it as they raced towards the forest. I wanted to race with them, the way I used to, but I couldn't because I was dreaming of sleep. The doctors told me I am tired because my vitamin levels are like the inside of a grand canyon — you can't reach them because they're low, so I've begun taking supplements which taste like dirt from a garden. "Things could always be worse" has become my daily poem, the words I repeat to myself whenever the going gets tough.
I could have been born into anything, maybe a cat who licks the feet of somebody's brother or a wild pine that must stay in the same place always. I could have been born a strawberry or a Micheal, instead I was born a girl named Amy with the kindling of dreams still in my hands and a deep in-my-gut desire to awake from this sleepiness and live again.
Autumn was here. This is me. The only I.