You died on this day,
Twelve soft long Autumns ago.
I still miss you, Ma.

How the wind does rage
Swirling the leaves through the air,
Brown fluttering clouds.












Top of the tree:
Two leaf bunches resist wind,
The only ones left.












Bright red maple leaf
Wedged in bark of a tree,
Filed for the winter.

Woods are gentle brown;
Leaves and wind form the palette;
Sunlight paints the strokes.

In front of the fir,
Speckled leaves wait to be blown;
Fir's going nowhere.











Clouds cover the sun,
Road becomes dark and eerie.
My mood changes, too.

My foot kicks a twig;
It rolls noiselessly away,
Swollen by the rain.