Katrina Kaye

Falling leaves,
red and gold,
scatter around your oak.
The wind holds,
a safe caress,
until your name
sends them hurtling
through the dusk.

I find you.

Perching upon
rotting gravestones,
counting the passing
time in sunshine
and rusting grass.
Patient as the dead.

Decomposing angel,
eyeing moldy lettering,
neatly carved dress
billowing in absent wind.

I wonder how long
to wait before
breaking the stillness
with scattered words,
as inconsequential as
fallen leaves around
the footing of oak trees.

“Angela’s Angel” is previously published in They Don’t Make Memories like that Anymore (2011).