Ten-Finger Exercises

...the falling leaves...drift by the window...the autumn

Here are two new poems I wrote while watching the motion of the leaves in the intermittent gusts of wind.


Fall Migration

A horde of leaves blows in from
the pile beneath the red maple tree,
skitters across the walk,
reverses directions,
scatters,
heads for the porch--
a safe retreat there from the
gusts--beside the steps or
beached among
the flower pots.
Some hide there
till they’re swept away,
The rest dart on,
careening from spot to
spot like children in
a toy shop. Two dark leaves,
dried and curled, trailing
long stems, scurry across the carport,
look alarmingly like mice.
In the end, most succumb to the shelter of
the row of arborvitae, squirreling themselves
between the trunks, to rest in peace.


No, I guess it's just one of them. I'll save the next for another day. It's a little obscure.