There are these spaces,
gaps, like branches,
with mouths that whisper
and scratch at our sacred dreams.
Leaves emerge from branches
at the disappearing point –
magic in the moment
different from the image at large.
Memories are travellers,
inhabit our gaps,
pretend an existence
lost in the space folds of time.
I carry the weight of fallen leaves
feel the heat of their decrease,
disdain the way they catch and hold
all liquid regrets.
I remember footsteps,
sunshine and a million oak leaves –
yellow and red stars fallen, cold,
crying out for a Spring long since past.
