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