The leaves on the trees have failed to fall completely.  Their crackling, made apparent by the wind, slithers and retreats, hoping only to escape the white of clear crystals falling from the sky. The ground beneath, soft as a pillow,…

It’s collapsing; the pressure– the weight under my feet.  It’s crisp and crackles, pressing solid to liquid, both frozen and cold.  Never much of a poet, I hear literature in the leaves.  The wind dances toward their death– their structure…