The Hush After Leaves

The air turns metallic, a coin on the tongue.

My breath writes pale script that fades before I can read it.

Light thins, steeping weak as the last tea in the pot,

sliding off roof tiles and hedges with a quieter hand.

Leaves underfoot have a new voice, less chatter, more hush,

papery, then damp, then the soft give of loam.

A gate clicks sharper. A far dog coughs once.

Somewhere, a robin ticks like a watch you hold to your ear.

Cold finds the wrist where the sleeve rides up,

sifts into the knuckles, the hinge of the jaw.

Keys feel heavier, like small truths.

The first skin of rime salts the watering can,

a delicate crust that breaks like spun sugar.

Creosote. Wet bark. Smoke that never quite becomes flame.

Apples left on the branch taste of tin and cider in the same breath.

Tongue to lip, you catch the sting of metal, a warning and a welcome.

The road’s puddles think about glass and almost get there.

I stand and count the small signals:

the way the allotment soil darkens to velvet,

The hedge is knitting itself tight.

The last wasp baffled by a jam jar’s ghost.

Even the light from the kitchen window sounds different,

a low vowel, a held note.

In this thinning hour, I remember my mother’s white hair,

how it took the light and steadied it,

fine as breath on a mirror, bright as milk on slate.

I think of her comb on the radiator, warm teeth,

the clean-linen scent that rose when I lifted it,

how she would smooth the flyaways with spit and a smile.

I pay my respects the way the frost does:

not loud, but thorough, touching everything.

I nod to the cold that teaches the shape of my hands,

to the garden folding itself like a letter,

to her bright crown in my mind, a quiet field untrampled.

Some changes don’t knock; they stand beside you.

You feel them in the wool gone damp at the cuff,

hear them in the robin’s slow metronome,

taste them in the apple’s edged sweetness.

I stay until the light is a held breath I cannot hold.

And then I carry it home, careful as a comb in my pocket.