Autumn

Crisply, bracken snaps under boot.
The leaves are wet reds
And terracotta drips onto brown.
Sweet air burns
While lakes resolve into glass.
Somewhere
A Ferris wheel turns and the young make love
In October grass.
The warmth is man-made.
Slowed are the captives of time;
Declining tenderly.
The world turns an attic of unremarkable things
Unwilling to fade or to care.
Colorful and raging,
Yet aloof:
A delirious prelude to the end of a world.

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I am often asked what I do for a living; the simple answer is, I make stuff. I make stuff with my bare hands, with code, with colors, with words. I aid in making the people around me realize their optimumĀ selves. I make my mother proud. I try to make my kids happy and encourage them to contribute more than they consume. I make sure self comes first. I make money. I make my own luck. I make a pretty solid french toast. And I do all that I can everyday to make the world better than it was yesterday.

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