gingko leaves
swallow the sun
and fall to earth
breaths so shallow
I wait for the next
rustling leaves
from the table
a bruised apple
rolls off
morning coffee
the tips of the trees
a bit more red
end of summer —
in my son’s room
I try on his shoes
from my bathing suit
water drips
ants scramble
end of summer —
only a few chips of polish
left on her toenails
too old now
to feel bad about
feeling good
new passport
I calculate my age
at its expiration
summer downpour —
ghosts of a thousand cranes
on the pavement