Leaves
I love to drive over them,
aiming at a large orange or
yellow frond,
my head hanging out the window
like a dog, hair-tongue
playing catch-up to my ears,
which are pricked and pointed to
catch the crunch.
I stomp on them;
I like to imagine
they’re spiders, tiptoeing on
curled limbs, brown bodies
floating just off the pavement.
They skitter along the sidewalk,
tripping and tumbling with the
grass
and the wind.
If the sky calls them,
they take to the air
clumsily, like balloons
only half-filled with Helium.
Gaining speed, they jump
higher and higher until they
clear
the building, and there is
nothing
left but a dim shadowy circle
against the sun in my squinted
eyes.
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