by Kevin T McEneaney
Shushing of autumn tree leaves in the wind
freights dry, brittle sound as they drift to ground.
There is sadness in the air when leaves die,
yet children love to play with them, tossing
leaves in air and gathering them in plies
without any thought of mortality.
That bristling rustle intimates dark death,
yet porch wind chimes sing a different tune
about life as cheerful enigma,
full of muted, lyrical resonance.
My seventeen-year-old cat died last night,
apparently in her sleep. Thinking back
to when she first appeared as a kitten,
the years appear as golden tapestry.