Fall

So beautiful
are those distant hills,
washed red
and orange, pale patches of yellow, dark veins
of green, bristle

like a mans
unshaven face. Curves

softened by the damp
haze of clouds and mist, cool
air, quiet - the soft touch
of rain drops finding
the path to their very own
leaf; difficult in this crowd of arms
twisted together in knots,
older crowding out younger.
Young ones reaching thin bodies
higher to see the light, feel
the air, taste
the rain.

How many drops touch
my tongue
before I’m blinded
by the rain.

All I want to do is feel
the touch
on my face,
imagine each as a kiss, moist
lips follow a joyful tear,

But they’re cold,
And I’m old.
I can’t see those summer clouds anymore,
wonder about their softness.
what they’d feel like wrapped around my shoulders.

So I sit under an eve and ponder the hills.
Could I fit them between my breasts?