Leaf
To bring the heart,
a heart sullen yet pounding still, to bring the heart out
at November sunset,
one must have turned.
To write in the minutes past twilight.
The mind becomes still.
As the the heart rages on.
Afraid of the dullness in the sky, above broken hands that reach always for the bright planet.
Hoping the turning dead leaves crisp and twirl all night even as the evening fallls,
The hope of days past will visit now and again in these turning leaves,
these dying leaves turning in the ceaseless battle of winter's arrival.
I know you said all worlds are not the same, once you said that to me.
But this one sparks a memory of a small brush fire, warming my Muskogean hands
ripped by bark and briar,
Yes this small twilight, this end of a day
sparks the fires of memory-
Of brittle leaves turning.
Of a brittle soul turning and turning,
always in the wind.
C.Kane
