on top
than there's on the bottom
autumn is colder
as she is older
now she’s steel wool
not cotton

she couldn’t grow higher
if she wore stilts
a cut bloom, pretty as it is
in the glass wilts

she pours an amber river
sees it flow
over the rocks
she’s made a raft
out of her splinters
and oars from her locks
the only thing to cushion her
are a pair of holey socks