i am the smell of rotting leaves and
i am the moist soft ground beneath them.
you are the joy in jumping and i,
i am the rotting.
the sweet peace of falling asleep
and forgetting this body
rings with the wind like a chorus.
will you tell me a story while i go?
you are the bright leaf’s dance as he
falls from the tree
and i am waking to watch the tree:
yellower than the sun and much louder.
on mornings like these,
i cannot distinguish between regret
and gratitude. i think they must both
swing wild in a banjo’s holler.
so i am missing wild brown hills
and wild dogs and your voice.
i am dreaming of sleepovers and of
lives well built.
in these dreams, i meet friends
in kindness and patience and
i meet strangers with love.
in this dream,
i am the rotting
and you are the fall.