Turning Yet Another Leaf

In this version I'm looking through a dirty screen behind a four-paned window. I'm counting the threads on the cobweb. I'm squinting at the sunlit shadow refracted in the north-west corner; how it pours warmth on the shoulder and brightens the olive pit of the eye.

I'm pondering why the leaves have yet to rust and remain evergreen, yet the slightest breeze is enough for them to pirouette to the earth. I'm thinking of lying on a bed of grass, and how its morning dew soaks into the childish soul.

In this version I'm breathing. I'm alive. I'm welcoming the wrinkled hand of another early autumn.