Dead Leaf
Jesse Breite

Its body shrinks wraith-fully
into its veins, crisp
from photosynthetic fire.

Blown by the cold,
buoyant wind, its bent fingers
screech, shaving over wood.

It flutters into heaps,
fenced at the edge of the lawn.
Turning into the rich earth,

red, purple, gold  hovers—
a breathing geode over
a sediment of acorn shell-crush.

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