Pitchforks and Hammer Handles

 Drops.
Down they come.
Slamming and banging away
Against these two hundred and eighty eight panes;
arranged in columns and rows.

The trees outside have come alive,
their leaves of amber, vermillion, and crimson,
shivering and shaking at us inside.
Or are they just dancing to the beat of the rain?
It can't really be October again.

Against these two hundred and eighty eight panes,
drops continuously cascade.

The blustery wind has Barbados
and Estonia flapping
and wrapping around like maypole
when suddenly,
the drops diminish.

Inside
the books are so rarely touched.
(let alone loved)
I drag my fingertips along their spines.
They support each other
arranged on shelves in columns and rows.


Students clashing together
like lime and apricot
we may never speak
we may never meet
we click and tap away
in a world that is our own