French la Vie

My thoughts pour out, rambling in different directions all at once, scattering like leaves blowing past my path. The clouds drift by, my hair tangles in the wind, and soon my thoughts begin to slow. I let them go—wandering with the leaves, with the clouds, drifting by, or like a pebble I throw into the stream.

A single leaf clings,
a fallen apple rests in the grass. The ground moist from last night’s rain.

I take another breath. The autumn perfume fills me. Another season. The sun slowly sets; the last light streams by as night falls. Moonlight silver on hinges. I lock the door, take off my shoes, wash my hands, and begin dinner.

Inside, a pot simmers —
soft sound of warmth and waiting.
Steam gathers on glass,
and in that small fogged world,
my thoughts pause.

In the reflection of the kitchen window, I see myself. Many seasons have come and gone. I smile at my reflection. I’m here.