The first rain arrived last night. Clumpets of wet leaves made brown and yellow pillows on the garden chairs. Two bright red apples, crown jewels sparkling on the highest branch, held fast against the wind.
Today the sun streaks hot lines across my back. There are moments of real cold settling, like omens, but they don’t sustain.
As I sit, pen in hand, an insignificant bloom folds in on itself, bidding a soft goodbye. Invisible roots inch their way down and down, gaining in girth and conviction.
A golden leaf, dropping in slow motion, catches me by the pen and holds me there. Just one twirl and then it lands, silently, beside my shoe. I watch as it turns, then lifts up again into words. How many words would it take to make a forest?
A sudden gust of wind rushes up and everything shifts. I try to write down the leaves, but the paper flaps against my hand, like it’s in some sort of hurry to get to safety.
And the words like the leaves keep coming and coming, will come again, this year, and next, again and again, they will fall.