Laurie-Anne Bosselaar
(1943 – )
Fall
So it’s today, and in the chokecherry this year:
the first leaves turn ochre, by the open gate.
I grab the sweater you left on a chair, wrap it
around my shoulders, and – as I did for days last year
until I couldn’t keep up with the season – I pick
every single rusting leaf, each fading flower
and hide them in my apron pocket: their crush
clandestine against my belly. It’s a simple gift
for you – for us – such and easy thing to do
for a few more days of summer.
