Home Body Heart

Always in autumn, reaching
or flying into pieces
scented cinnamon.

The leaves were content
as a carpet at the curb
till I stir them up, memories
quick and caught and airborne

There I am, once,
watching at the kitchen window, apple
muffins in the oven, apple
children of my eye, and is it them,
or me as a child, decades ago
hurrying home in golden light
leaves and futures caught in my hair
a Betsy Ray book waiting for me
to read of adventure long ago or me
Here, now, buying pens and dreaming a
story about a long journey, a girl
packing a leather satchel, setting out on foot
to slay dragons and seek fortune and become
a tale to tell.