Quiet Rustling

The yard hums with the weight of color,  

amber and saffron pooled at my feet.  

Every leaf a whispered confession,  

every gust a hand turning pages.  

I wonder if trees mourn their bareness,  

branches stretched like open palms,  

asking for grace or letting go  

of another season they couldn’t keep.  

Above me, the sky wears its honesty  

like a bruise healing into brightness,  

and I keep looking for proof  

that emptiness can still hold beauty.  

My shoes crunch, crackle small symphonies—  

music made by what has already fallen.  

I bend to pick up a leaf as if  

I, too, could learn to speak this language:  

the letting go without breaking apart,  

the ability to flutter without fear,  

to land as both memory and promise,  

to be everything, even briefly, then rest.