A lonely leaf lies
left behind by a shoe
that has tramped it
in across the threshold.

I peek through glass
holding my breath
hopeful to capture the
ground covered gold.

All of the life that
summer trees exhibit
crash so carelessly down
into textured puddles
that crunch underfoot
to end up alone on
the step to my door.

If only it would have
held on for a day more
or even a week so
that I could take time
to absorb its transition.

But it is done. Though
trees bound back to
live after the fall,
I imagine that this,
between us, is left for
the broom and bin.

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