In their fall, first leaves of autumn,
threading the air with silent chords,
swell with each such drop
a flaming carpet growing thus —
game, then, soon enough, to rustle
and fly off in the wind
from below the feet
as the space around
begins to burst with coruscation,
folios of lightning forks
and the lightest of the roars.
In such crackling intervals,
on such agape sills, we both
meet and find what we never lost.
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