For the Fall

The orange tree in the front yard stands stocky. I watch leaves fall, burnt sienna hitting the grass with low murmurs of autumn. Quiet aging paints the yard in spots of brown.

I sit on warm porch steps, popsicle juice dripping from my chin, mouth stained tangerine.

I hold the stick in one hand, hanging loosely between my fingers, let the bright taste linger on my tongue. Citrus softens, fading as the cold melts. I burrow the last bite in the crook between roof of mouth and baby teeth, humming to keep it alive.

A leaf drifts by silently, split brown veins lifelines in a thin skin. It meets ground in a soft kiss, a speck in the grass. I wonder how it does not make a sound when ripped from its home in the tree branches. I know the wind hurts where it tugs me away from the child I used to be, takes me further from that simple lightness.

I am heavier than that leaf, and I cannot meet the ground gently.