Like fallen leaves
The red and brown, dry paper leaves
now do their dying season dance.
They float on air
and in their slow, slow gravity
of suicidal timing
they spin, they tumble
and they fall towards the quiet pond
that waits, all trembling surface,
in silent, silver, circular breath,
before it mirror freezes.
My hand now waiting for a breath,
a sign that here,
this is the season of the gentle fall:
the whisper dying of my flesh upon your waiting skin.
A gentle touch, like fallen leaves
upon the surface of a pond:
my hand upon your hair, your breast.
A gentle tremor welcomes me;
your murmur breath now welcomes me
and tells me to come home.