Restlessness lifting my fingers like the dead leaves given new life
by the billowing breeze behind me, out my window,
swirling in circles, tiny cyclones caressing the street and the trunks of the trees from which
Jumped, more likely. Wouldn’t you?
Leaf stems tying them down like umbilical cords
mooring them to wooden arms, stiff roots like anchors
bending, but never setting sail from their native soil.
Now the leaves are free, spirits spinning around bodies
the earth around the nucleus of the sun.