old life in boxes —

when has the waning crescent

been this thin and sharp?

first frost

finally silencing

the mosquito’s whine

looking everywhere

for storm windows and finding

paper wasps instead

spring sun —

the red faces of those

caught unprepared

every fallen stick

seems crooked as I look

for a straight one

one rainstorm later

and all I can think is how

I want the leaves back

all work forgotten

as the day’s first sunlight

bounces off the lake

beneath the willow

was a space I claimed as mine

until I met you

before wind and rakes

leaves still where they dropped

in bright circles