in the morning fall

in the morning

the blow of chill rustles aimless

as a rusty leaf will rattle until wet

there is a conversation happening

somewhere

in which two people disagree

about aesthetics, about housework

and division of labor

about what it is to feel love

and to show this to another person

whenever we can

about the past and about what it was

the words

is it that we don't understand

is it that their meaning is the color of leaves

waiting for this breeze to break

away, stem brittle where the twig grows hard

against the cold

is it that this morning holds these castaways

is it that you are an oak unto yourself

is it that your roots are deep

and will remain and will remain

is it that abiding will be solitary

is it that the wind collects these leaves

her fingers strong and cool

so stepping out you must awake

and though every breath intaken has the scent of leaving things

is it that we believe love thickens

and grows sweet

that lets the autumn pull us walking

until hand in hand?