Leaves

These leaves have tilted downward
Wilted and curled like an old man’s hand
They pitch back and forth with the wind, they heave
And release, they feather at nature’s whim.

There is no water left in their furled veins
Dry as a bleached bone, these catch on my windshield and cling
They release and flutter away to clog gutters
And drainpipes and rot along the highway shoulder.

These leaves have stuck to my wheel wells, I carry them with me
Until I get to where I’m going and I clean them out.