a humble heap
of leaves,
shaken from home
tree,
some appear nearly
alive,
others bake like bones
of summer,
stripped of pigment
but still
magic,
in tragic but
forgiving
light.
autumn
an early morning
moving truck,
mother’s lip stained
coffee cup,
her majesty-
tobacco
queen,
a muffled sigh
in flannel
sleeve,
ledge littered with
fall’s blood
drained
leaves.
last caged bird
of memory
flees.
no leaf like
the next,
restless children
of fall-
scattered and
vibrant,
in play or
at rest,
tiny toes flatten
grass,
eyes drift like
clouds
through dream
filled skies,
when grown weary,
we cozy
inside,
no leaf like
the next,
autumn ache
floods my
chest.
a pumpkin
smile,
gent tilts his
head,
as if his turn
in game,
on chipped tooth bench,
lunch clasped
in palm,
cloaked in
trees,
shaded by
leaves,
knows not where
he’s from
or how he’s come
to be..
so infant-eyed
and free.
bury me in
autumn
so that i can thaw
like ground,
from peace
of solemn slumber
when springtime
rolls around.
fresh winds whistle
autumn’s
song
midst the absence
of birds to
carry it
along,
like a trickling stream
ready to freeze
at the very hint of
an evening
breeze.
crimson of the
leaves-
symbolic of
blood..
from the heart of
a tree,
i’m raking up
floods.
a premature deep frost
gnaws at my
bones
as i reach for comfort
to cover my
soul,
the earth turns over
under my
skin-
right where it’s
forever
been.
were leaves to sense
their fate
come season’s
shift..
would they cling
tighter
to
branch
of a tiring tree,
or just fall like they’d
been set
free?
i’ll take autumn’s hand
should she ask me
to dance,
in the splendor of
her vibrancy–
i’d rise to such
a chance.
hands in the garden 
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