There´s not much to recommend
on a day like this,
when dust makes headway
and the dog follows me
with the ball in her mouth
as I drift from one unfinished task to the next.
Some time after dark,
I step out onto the deck
for a breath of damp, chilled air,
and notice that the light
from my living room window
is highlighting the wet gleam
of fallen maple leaves on the lawn.
They put me in mind of a book
I pressed leaves in some years ago.
I rummage until I find it,
then thumb through the pages,
at the sharp points of their star-like shapes,
the petrified veins--the russets and yellows.
I should really do something with these,
I think, beautiful as they are,
but I am not struck with inspiration,
and so I carefully put them back--
return the book to its niche on the shelf
next to a picture box filled
with images of my children growing up--
those long-ago years
when we still knew one another.