like a tea sieve

filtering windfall colors.

 

The sundried day was cold,

and bird-eyed students waded

 

through the tea-thick air

on their way from class,

 

across the narrow arching street,

back to unmade beds.

 

But we were content—

brewing silence when leafy words

 

would not stay fresh.

And everyone—

 

everyone is just waiting.

 

Behind your shadow,

I burn those yellow leaves

 

to warm a somber moment,

and regret that your eyes

 

cannot untangled rose gardens

or rouse new autumn trees—

 

nor can you halt aging footsteps

into some an uncertain vestibule

 

whose doors are now lined

with yellow leaves.