Our sweaty hands
Reached up and pulled them as they waved,
Fistfuls of summer leaves
Whose veins ran cool through
Green apple skin and
Soft undersides.
We held them up
Until our skin turned pink
And the sun spun purple in our eyes.
Around our fingers, each leaf curled,
Then with sun rays fell
And stayed a while in our front yard.
Trees and tries
Leave a pile of the leafy dead
When the season comes around.
Brown sounds reach,
Crinkling with each slinky stretch,
Then settle like dust
Beneath so many shoes.
The songs of the creek
Are silenced at its surface by a
Thick frozen wall,
So the wind
Creeps up leaf-covered hills
And climbs the trees,
Rustling their dried leaves
That hang
Like a billion beetle carcasses
Tacked on
Steel spider web branches.
It scratches out tunes
Until the creek
Can bear no more
And splits its icy barrier,
Proudly bubbling up superior melodies
And whipping the wind
Into froth, dashing it
Against the rocks.
