Write some fallen leaves
without overly detailed imagery

and place them
in catchy hooks
on a non-descript lawn

Construct a rake
from unused punctuation

and use it to gather
the leaves into a pile
under the guise
of poetic license

Record the crunching noises
while stepping into the leaf pile

and turn the sounds into tracks
that are played on repeat
until the soundscape inspires
more fallen leaves

Then share the loop of fallen leaves

In that direction
don't worry about limited métier
or imagism
or geography
or that pixelated
worms are numbers
Interpretation will take care
of the wormholes
and the melting iceberg theory
will make sense
in the imagination of people
who include climate change
in the worlds that sprout
around the fallen leaves

There will always be a place
where evergreens grow
in a soil enriched by earthworms
that churn ornamental detritus
into beds of gut feelings
and blood mixes with sap
when fallen needles pierce the skin

It's a place
where the tops of river rocks
are bleached bone-white
when water runs low
because the sky rests for no one

It's a place
where it's difficult to discern between
the dried veins of fallen leaves
and moth's wings
shredded apart
on the deciduous bark
where you called her name
to only hear your echo return
that day

It's a place
to repetitiously re-learn
our contradictions

and where breath
erodes the anxiety
that clings onto
unconscious summits

until the reasons for being
are revealed