Walking in the fallen forest foliage,
I step on crunchy leaves and stop to forage,
With the atavistic discrimination of a hunter-gatherer,
For those leaves which I will later press
Smoothly between the pages of an old but timeless tome,
Full of strangers' annotations, folded corners, and the comforting scent of home,
As I drink a piping hot cup of peppermint tea,
Curled up under a quilt with my cat curled on my knees.
Meanwhile, an august gust blows dozens of black walnuts down the hill,
Bringing in a crisp chill,
Doffing leaves from branches.
I look up to the empyrean & smile
As leaves are drooping, drifting, dancing, dropping down on me.
