October afternoon:
The fate of a single alder leaf
Drifting down,
might have been sealed
Long before the tree.
.
Now
Is less about early afternoon breezes.
More about lingering mornings,
Not yet ripe and flavored
With neatly packaged memories of summer.
.
This leaf floats through air
not yet lacquered in winter,
But stained with the patina of a mid-day sun
That hides swimming holes and watermelons.
.
Still,
This is time for one more earful of cricket song,
frog speak,
Stinging mosquito bite.
.
Where the leaf lands,
tastes of dust in cool woods.
.
Creeks move in tiny whispers here,
If they haven’t gone forgotten.
.
Shaken Rain 