I lean back slowly,
anticipating the solid door.
Fingers numbing,
I bring the cigarette closer to my lips.
I cough once; twice.
Then pull the scarf tighter against my throat,
my eyes searching the sky.
The sun’s barely risen,
the winter night’s frost still
lingering against the grass;
but on the topside of the building across from me,
the sun’s rising rays
cast a shadow.
I hear a sound, I turn
–and see a squirell, scurrying on
a cable line.
I ash my cigarette and
walk across the street
to the bus stop,
where I perch myself on a house step.
I look up, and see a bird,
flying
–its wings fluttering,
then stilling
–in staccato
–and look to the trees,
wondering if the leaves that haven’t fallen
are still going through their cycle
with every breath I take.
If, perhaps, the leaves aren’t really dead
untill they fall.
copyright Marie Meyers, 2013
