Bus

It’ s hard to remember
Autumn skies
And winter chill.
There is another humour
In the air.
On lighter, freer note.
Is this what decides our ways?
Whether warm or cold?
Bright or grey?
It would seem so.
But this warmth is only temporary.
Soon to be returned
To blackened skies
From which our green will thrive.
And to be honest
We prefer it that way,
A gift of common language
To break ice
At the bus stop.

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