A last leaf freshly fallen from a sycamore,

lies on the ground in the woods in the morning,

by a river with cottonwood and hickory,

my sleeves catch on greenbriar,

my fingers feel cold,

dead branches break under my feet,

I’m somewhere between real and dreams,

walking where I am, waiting for where I want to be,

content with discontent for the time,

embraced by a wintery wild,

in the woods with warmth in my heart.