Fallen Leaves

I awake one morning to the sharp air in my lungs, reminding me that it is time to wrap myself in swaths of blankets and protest the chilled footsteps of morning.

I crawl into the early hours and pour thick coffee into an English mug my younger brother brought home for me to use on just such mornings, a memento of places I will never see.

A shawl about my shoulders, I walk down the lane, watching my squirrel carry his winter load, darting about my dusted path. The fence is frosted silver, and the blue morning light reminds me of a lover past, the way his eyes held the moonlight, the stroll we made down a storefront sidewalk moistened with leaves that created a golden wallpaper beneath our feet, my waist encased in his arms as he jealously pulled me from the tendriled touch of the dying crimson leaves. He proffered his jacket to shield me from the warm spring kisses of rain that soon danced about the swelling buds, protected my lungs from the redolent spring air by smothering my lips in his.

I stoop to pull the paper from its shelter in the bushes and shiver back toward my home, realizing contentedly that my lover isn't there.

(November 17, 1999)

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