leaves, orange leaves, yellow streaked,
a thread of green snaking through the middle,
something fresh, not yet ready to fall,
clinging to the branch
for as long as the wind and the storm and the rain will allow.
Sometimes, there are only leaves
red leaves soaked in rain, burgundy
swirling at eye level,
unwilling to land.
Sometimes there are brown leaves crunching underfoot.
Sometimes, there are no words,
no poem but this floating.
among the boards.