Compiling

Come by me,

compile this story of leaves that you told me,

though a tragic breeze,

speaks then leaves

avoiding so deliberately.

Compile me,

in this pile of leaves that you shook from the trees.

Found laughter to be

a wiser way to leave

our names etched in our tree.

Shouldering autumn,

describing the causes'

reason to or to not

bury us with the peak of the hill,

where the colors swirled and spilled.

Pure white light in the distance,

frozen in the sun to the surface of your cheek.

Rose tinged evening

on the pedal of the horizon

bending our feeling backwards

possessed by each other

Leaving etchings unintentionally