Backlogged,
behind the library
Above
oak bark yet broken
There’s
our leaf.
Milton,
William Shakespeare?
Aching,
trying to make trochees touch?
Naw,
just printing out something for class.
Cool
summer shade, guardian
Of tranquil
readers. “Holy fuck!
My stem
broke off—now
I am
falling—first!—The day
Came!”
Invisible autumnal
Sound of
wind—the culprit.
And
infinite interpretations on how
Really
did the leaf fall? And where?
Even
just learning names, the leaves’
Author,
can be tricky. Don’t
Read too
much into vein lines.
Try being
significant when
There’s
springtime in Australia
Or better
stories yet unread
Or grass
waiting on the ground
!