Every autumn

The wind sweeps dust off old trees
like a french maid, nose in the air, her iPod earbuds jutting out,
lungs soundlessly exhaling lyrics of forgotten songs.
Those empty pop tunes breeze past you and me,
and with a shiver we see the accident as it happens.

In all the cleaning, leaves have started to fall.
The red-orange veins drop in slow motion sunlight,
and we watch the wind trying to catch them.
Everything stops for her, she leaps and slides under each leaf
and almost gets every one. They pirouhette and stall.
But there are too many, and
one by one crash on the sidewalk.

For the rest of the season, the wind will try to gather
all of them in neat piles, to put back what’s been broken
before she gets too cold to care.


Still writing. Another month of a poem a day. I’m so thankful for my life and the ability to find these moments in it.