The leaf falls on the page,

red, after being green 
her whole life. The mail carrier

and his broken marriage
at the door deliver grief

and the Paris Review, 
the icemaker knocking out

ice. Outside the trees laugh 
the tops of their heads off.

This blow, a breeze, gusts 
wildly denuding

deciduous trees, determined 
to leave nothing weak behind.

Oblivious, the pines 
have grown too close

to the shingled house. 
They brush the slats.

Both are cedar and flirt 
with reunification. We live

by the sea and clear-cut trees
harvested for building

and burning. Some die 
for others, and by some

I mean those who don’t breathe 
the way we do, but are no less

alive: beach grass, trees, 
the breeze. Dear trees––the earth

still spins for the love of you. 
I lean my skin against your skin.

My dog in all innocence pees 
at your feet.  I let him.

Your mourning arouses ––X–– 
in the air, what I breathe

and can’t breathe,
what I see and don’t.