Now there are many leaves falling
from the branches of the trees.
I see them fall to the ground spinning
in the wind. They are golden, red, manilla.
I see them swept along paved streets.
I see them collecting in the gutters and covering
the grass in the park. Although,
when I watch a tree, I cannot witness
the transformation. It is not like watching you
take off your shirt. It’s like waking up every morning
and noticing one more layer has been shed.
It’s like watching a friend’s hair thinning as he goes bald.
My heart has leaves too. Or rather, it had leaves.
I have woke up groggy and coffeeless, looking
through the window at black, crooked branches:
stark, naked, silhouetted. Looking at gutters of leaves
in my stomach. Feeling raw and ready to be frozen
for the winter - only because I know that life will return,
buds will grow again, and this space without only helps
to foster gratitude towards the space with, gratitude
for human seasoning.