Your hand is heavy
in mine. Shall I cut
it off and prop
the door open?
I don't believe the leaves
have ever fallen so quickly.
The wind has a way
of sweeping leaves inside.
Damn the debris of autumn,
you mutter, quiet-like,
just above a whisper.
Later, in the kitchen,
an apple crisp is being born,
and in the cupboard,
a plate has cracked in half.
The Petoskey stones
that we gathered
stare at me from the window sill.
In the closet, our tent
has already started to hibernate.
By this time tomorrow,
I will have forgotten your name.
For now, you smile and brush
the hair out of your eyes,
quiet-like, just above a whisper.
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