Mottled leaves climbing
up creamy brick, and reaching
for the patch of sky;
the blue within grey crowding
clouds that seems to beckon: Light.

Morning, op'ning door:
Crisp air, bright sun, and a leaf
which waited, I know,
for the best, most dramatic
fluttery moment to fall.

The last autumn leaves,
lone sparks against long winter,
flicker. Soft, softer,
as flames die down. We may grieve,
but just the sight can warm us.