untitled poem

 (untitled)

The poems of humans are filled with leaves;

many times illuming green,

fluttering prettily in a breeze,

a view down to lovers

on a bench.

But mostly they are on the late-autumn ground

or blowing down a street

rife with gusts of storm—

gold and earthen without scorn,

returning to what

they came from.

The metaphor that we are them,

coming and going through the ages,

is often employed,

reminding us once again the light is changing,

and that behind everything we experience is a cold—

cold enough to make ice crack—

yet still, in the tiny spaces,

warm enough

to let a kiss burn.