Austere limbs held the last
autumn leaves against the wind,
little brown pennants of a lost spring.
Outside a street cafe
I sat and watched their flutters
their brittle battle.
I listened to their lilts and trills,
together much more than a rustle.
Perhaps a rite to their fallen companions
scattering along the street.
An actress I once knew in spring
drove past in an old Mercedes-Benz,
silver, of course.
She was biting her nail,
perhaps nervous for an audition
I should call her and ask,
see how it went.
My own brittle battle.
