Tuesday morning the green leaf
was bent, not broken. Red pickled
beets held up the book of San
Francisco poetry. I spread apple
butter on hot toast. To someone
less discerning, death seemed far
away. Had I not noticed the
slight curl, I might have cheered
the yellow sun. But Friday, death
came. Without lament, the leaf was
grey, not green, mud-brown and brittle.

Copyright 2019 Tod Howard Hawks