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.
leaves
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.
hands in the garden 
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