Texture I Can't Touch

Brisk breeze, falling leaves;
Sun light dapples on the leaves.
All is crisp and cool.

 

 Shadows in the leaves;
Layers and layers of light;
Texture I can't touch.

 In shade at field's end
Wire fence seems to disappear;
(Or maybe it's me)

 

 Backyard wilderness--
A riot of growing things.
Nature is unplugged.

 

The tinkling stream
Is obscured by foliage;
Just its sound remains.

 

 When the shadows move
The wind whispers behind them
Urging them forward.

 

 Pointing toward the sky
Sumac stands tall on its limb:
Violet erection.

 Heads always bowing
Timothy sways in the breeze,
Worshipfully devout.