the last leaves of autumn fell,
finding a grave in the imprint
of stranger's feet-
shallow as it was, they seemed content

the leaves look more like wings,
imaginary things
that carry with them, the first cold breath of winter

wind wrestled with the margins of a book
left outside the local coffee shop-
someone had forgotten it, maybe
they had no more use for it

to think about the nights
spent in the anguish of absence
when a book is the only sanctuary
in loneliness

this is the way
to make amends with shadows,
to offer a truce to the past

on some nights
the book we read
is the one we're writing
and memory and wind
aren't always so comforting

Amberlee Carter

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/last-night-and-then-this-morning/