Leaves

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They are called leaves

because they do.

Shading through green

then changing hue.

Urged by light

or a chill in the bone,

they let go,

leave home.

For brief moments

sail in the air

without hope,

without care.

Driven by the wind

they seem dead,

aspen yellow,

maple red.

They seem dead

and decay.

The soil reclaims them

to live next May.

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Autumnal Solstice

The sun crossed the equator.

The Earth tilted.

The bubble in the level slid south.

Did you feel it?

The sun feels warm,

but hot days are just a threat,

brittle and rattling

like the dry leaves underfoot.

The night air smells of petunias

and marigolds.

I look up at a million tiny snowflakes

waiting to come down.

This is the best time,

the cool evening of the year.