I know seasons through your traces
When every morning
Going to pick up the paper
In driveway
Or under my car
And sometimes found them playing
On branches of rose
In avant-garden.
For 13 years I followed
Your shady moves
In that grayish mini van
Turning the lights on
To bandle and handle your papers.
Now that you are leaving,
Reading Washington Post
Or 3C City Times
Is not that much fun anymore.
You disappear in Route 66
I do not find my way
In seasons
Or stone.
*for Glenda,the paper lady
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