My Morning Tea

I imagine the flavor
to be jasmine
as I shuffle through
the leaves,
pale yellow yesterday,
the morning rain
has darkened them a shade.
The next block
smells of cranberry,
if only in my mind,
the deep reds of the oak
temp me with a spectrum
running amaranth near the trunk
to amber further out.
I carefully select a pile,
scooping them into a puddle
where I stand
until the water
permeates my shoes.
I squish away.
Happy.

Rust and Umber

I can always write about leaves,
fallow and fawn,
rust and umber,
their sound, amplified it seems,
crushing
under my feet,
reaching my ears
with percussive sounds
like cymbals crashing and hissing.
The wind winds through
adding a texture to the sounds
just as I pass a playground
in full orchestra,
children's voices carried
and twirled about,
twined together
as one instrument
punctuated
by the occasional staccato shriek.
I tap out a beat on my thigh
as I let my ear buds dangle,
and my feet shuffle
through the next pile of leaves.
I can always write about leaves.

This Dance, Again

Brittle November leaves
cross over the face of the full moon
as they swirl
and dance
and giggle,
giving the illusion of great motion
but finally coming to rest
inches from where they began
waiting
for their next chance
to dance.





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Some Always Remains

It's a kind of magic

that these warm Autumn winds
blow in memories,
hidden on the backs
of the leaves which
swirl around my feet.
I find my childhood home,
preserved in miniature,
near the stem of a brilliant
maple leaf
and I sit, mouth agape,
until the wind circles around
and carries off
most of what it carried in.

Sometimes Open Eyes

Versicolor leaves
layer themselves
over still green grass
as sun splashed highlights
fall across these remaining droplets
of rain.
This street-side beauty
finds my breath
catching in my chest
as I marvel that this world
is so close to my own
yet days seem so far apart.

*In response to sundayscribblings.blogspot.com

Wind

Who has seen {
     the sudden rise
   and  w
      s   ir
         l
of what had been
    amotionlessgroup
  of drying leaves
     ing
    s
  ri
in a small cacophony of sound.
}
the wind?



*In response to Carry on Tuesday

Fade

Sudden sunlight
startles eyes
prepared for gray.
Refocusing reveals
a well lit
gray day
and the stirrings
of light
fade.

Ordinary

Harvesting the ordinary magic
of a moonless night.
Foot falls on concrete,
creating the illusion
that my path
runs counter
to the rotation
of the Earth
and, somehow,
my small movements
extend the moment
enough
so I may notice
the wind, blowing through
autumn leaves,
hits many of the notes
of a spring breeze
but hidden in its song
rings
winter.