I'm Tyler Knott Gregson.
I am a poet.
Author.
photographer.
Artist.
Buddhist.

Typewriter Series #427 by Tyler Knott Gregson
Text for Tired Eyes:
It occurred to me, as occurring and me often dancein the dim of morning when even the birds have not yetbegun to sing, that you are and were and will probably be alwaysthe Autumn.The sound of your hair drying after a steam filled and lingeringshower is the sound almost exactly and to the most precise measurementof a single leaf curling upon itself and shivering, slightly only,against the oncoming hint of what Winter just might bring.Your breath rises and swirls in and up and through  and catches lightlike the ribbons of smokey and earth stained mist from this cup of tea.Maybe,the occurrence suggests, like ink merely suggeststhat the water it drips into turn its shade as well,your hands are leaves and they will tumble and fall and my skincan be the ground, still reflecting the starlight in morning.Maybe I suggest back, like the last words of a dying manpleading for a moment more, they can fall on me.You are and cannot help but be the Autumn to me.You are the rolling fog and the  way it covers you without askingpermission but still requiring gratitude.You are the sweater and blanket against the frostand the way you always appreciate the warm cup of warm teain cold hands on cold dawns.The thought formed itself and took rootand planted itself in my mind that you will be, are, were, and cannotquite help but be the Autumn and I, freezing through the Winterand shaking off the moisture and smell of new life of Springand dripping the sweat and rising heat lines off empty streetsin Summer, wish to say this to the breeze and hope it is carriedback to you:You are the Autumn and I wait all year long for you.-Tyler Knott Gregson-

Typewriter Series #427 by Tyler Knott Gregson

Text for Tired Eyes:

It occurred to me, as occurring and me often dance
in the dim of morning when even the birds have not yet
begun to sing, that you are and were and will probably be always
the Autumn.
The sound of your hair drying after a steam filled and lingering
shower is the sound almost exactly and to the most precise measurement
of a single leaf curling upon itself and shivering, slightly only,
against the oncoming hint of what Winter just might bring.
Your breath rises and swirls in and up and through  and catches light
like the ribbons of smokey and earth stained mist from this cup of tea.
Maybe,the occurrence suggests, like ink merely suggests
that the water it drips into turn its shade as well,
your hands are leaves and they will tumble and fall and my skin
can be the ground, still reflecting the starlight in morning.
Maybe I suggest back, like the last words of a dying man
pleading for a moment more, they can fall on me.
You are and cannot help but be the Autumn to me.
You are the rolling fog and the  way it covers you without asking
permission but still requiring gratitude.
You are the sweater and blanket against the frost
and the way you always appreciate the warm cup of warm tea
in cold hands on cold dawns.
The thought formed itself and took root
and planted itself in my mind that you will be, are, were, and cannot
quite help but be the Autumn and I, freezing through the Winter
and shaking off the moisture and smell of new life of Spring
and dripping the sweat and rising heat lines off empty streets
in Summer, wish to say this to the breeze and hope it is carried
back to you:
You are the Autumn and I wait all year long for you.

-Tyler Knott Gregson-