messy baboon=happy baboon

When it’s raining
a tattered pinwheel, gold-flecked
loose leaf whipping in circles

when it’s raining it’s raining
when it’s October it’s winter
and April, winter too.

Somewhere, it’s the future,
somewhere south of here.

What if the seasons
are a language
or the gaps between seasons
codes told in spans of days.

The key is missing,
Though a message could be found.

It would be inexplicable,
of course,

like any message from no one
to everyone.



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