Leaves

The leaves have started to smear.

They're running together,

Creating a thumb print smudge.

When I stand in the forest,

Chin tilted back,

Eyes set to gaze above,

A rainstorm of green

Suspends above me,

Only to fall when

A gust of wind blows

Or the seasons change.

When I stand on the end of a mountain,

Looking down at a world below,

That seems to close,

A river of green

Runs below.

I can imagine leaning a little further

To dip my hands into,

To wade through.

Even drink from the cool bubbling white,

A hydraulic of green

Tosses my hair,

And every short strand becomes fire,

Set to burn the green to brown.