it is october
and the ridges on your skirt are higher than mine
and i cannot count the leaves
too red now
it is october
when i remember you dreamed of branches
your tiny rubber soles scuffing the pavement
tiny fists clenched, swinging
around
as we delighted in the rustling
october
and cold
and not as brisk as you imagined
when you told me, older now, to go
they come in hoards
too many fleeting scarlets, swift vermillions,
your cheeks—flushed and rosy
—slipping now
i grasp and i gather
i stuff them deep in pockets
and they scatter—still
and
and
and i think
you would have laughed
to hear them crackle