Angela’s Angel

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

to speak scattering words
as inconsequential as
leaves fallen around
the footing of oak.