Take off the headphones
for there is the dry rustle of leaves
like layers of fabric falling
colliding, pooling in piles
around the base of the ginkos
like golden skirts from a sleepy lady’s curtsy
spilled low across the green grass.
There are footsteps and laughter
suffusing the sunshine with an aural warmth
that hints of harvest and plenty,
places set at the table,
the ceramic cling of dishes passed
as we all slow down, take
the long way to where we’re going
before the wool sweaters feel too thin
like windows framed with frost in the morning.
— I don’t really have a title for this.