Like a poem I meant to write...

Autumn,creeping upon us while we slumber,is betrayed by cooler mornings,and longer evenings...

On my twenty-first birthday,amidst the usual celebrations of one who has successfully made the transition from wet behind the ears whipper-snapper,to fully fledged adult,it occurred to me that I had experienced my life up to that point in seven year cycles.

Birth to age seven.
Seven to fourteen.
And fourteen to twenty-one were defined by three separate and distinct phases,apart from the physical,that passed unnoticed until viewed in retrospect.
It's kind of a mathematical thing I do without provocation.
An obsessive compulsion that drives me to multiply the horizontal by the vertical,and divine words from the random numbers on the license plates I observe,walking from the parking lot,into the supermarket.
..Numbers make rhymes.

So,it's come as no surprise to me that this seven year formula-callit has held true to this very day.
Not that it's some cast in bronze occurrence that I can set my watch by.
I mean,..I didn't make the abrupt transition on my forty-ninth birthday to an entirely new set of circumstances.
..Not exactly.

It's more akin to the manner in which twilight falls just a little bit earlier each evening,until you awake one morning to discover that the seasons have changed.


'The leaves that are green'