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.