Autumn Leaves in November

Perched on my knees deep
in Blackeyed Susans
hair dances on sun brushed shoulders
I close my eyes in the
Yellow of the world and
wait to capture the wings of secrets.

There are only murmurs of the wind
and faint whispers of leaves
as soft and elusive as Baby’s Breath,
in a place that does not want to be
silence.

A stream trips over fallen stars, and
water drops taste like April air.
I almost do not see the road until -
running -
Artemis flies past me on it,
She once turned to beckon me.
No longer.

The voices are autumn leaves in November, and
I have forgotten how to listen.

Yet,

Sometimes,

The dew drops still smell of lilies.