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