This damned window is more of a lens
The way it bends the light in forms and figures
And sly peculiars the mind can’t quite configure
See now the glass bends to a leaf all in green
That skitters serene on a grave of oak ash
Watch how it took on a whim to the cool summer winds –
That same air that left kisses on the window in mist –
The leaf rises ever higher, afraid of the earth
Until it drops through my window, the surface rippling
It hovers uncertain, unknown and unsound,
Then alone in the air, then alone in my hand.


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