The leaves were brittle
I let them crumble in my hands
while I rumbled them together
making organic friction.
They drizzle from my flattened palms
and I watch as the civilization below these moist wood-chips
and soil look up in amazement at my autumnal snow.
Does that make me an instrument of nature?
Their pagan goddess?
Perhaps not.

My scattered leaves rebound
and some flies back toward my face
a fragment of a whole
lands on the pink of my bottom lip.
I brush it away
holding it on the tip of my index
watching the wind carry it away.
I wish the wind would carry
me away.