at least my boots are blue

could i heal
if i listened to the right song
or asked the right questions
waking up to brown november
after a soft october dream
sights outside my sill
the spitting image of new london,
but not. waking up to brown november
not being home, not swathed in love
is that what adulthood feels like
and could i heal if i just
said the right words
or found the right job
or kissed the right lips
asking for nothing but a soft october man
to follow the strange september fall
the forest fire that took the leaves
waking up to brown november
not in school, splashing through puddles
the walk to work carrying me leglessly
back and forth, forth and back
waiting for the cold dust of silent
december, not at home, not in love
not huddled in front of fire
with warm blanket or hot cocoa
could i heal if i just woke up, one day
put on my blue boots
and forgot to hurt?