Deciduous Leaf

Highways of moisture peel in from the city center.

The bridge connecting the green tear to its mother and siblings

lets the single worker hang, lost in the swarm.

It pays scoops of sunlight to be a strand of hair on a healthy head.

There must be a first to have a crack in the bridge and slow motion descent.

There must be a good view of the first and second and third

being flattened into the concrete

by worn soles and bicycle wheels and poor Betty who tripped on the curb.

And if its skin is red then all that’s left to do is hope to fly

to see what can only be seen on a joyride with death or the wind,

whatever you call it.

And be part not of a head but an immortal painting that keeps its beauty

through thousands of sacrifices for which Autumn in their honor was renamed.