I walk in biting snow,
my hand is up to strike
me, my face -
I told my arm to do that
when an autumn wind cleaves through.

First you see the front,
and then you see the flip side -
falling Autumn leaves

are like paper -
veins,
brittle webbing
transparent almost,
and impossibly made
with any human hand unless, of course
you plant a seed.

Winds can be troubles
turbulent, mindless, sharply
they pluck; and I hide

but I
am as concealed
as a leaf -
I ought to listen
to what is told to me:
you are no fool, to
choose to

walk in biting snow;
under trees, nearly naked,
but hard as packed earth

and I walk in biting snow,
no words to voice my thoughts, I lift
my hand
to strike
but I honestly ought to listen to the

dying, tumbling leaves -
both their front and their flip side,
the fragile candor

of their fall.