My pretty, breakable, expensive house
is on the tree, hung from the lowest branch--
it sways as the kitten
climbs up the trunk;
the ornaments tinkle like sleighbells,
poorly connected lights blink on and off,
tinsel falls to the ground
like red and gold rain,
and the kitten, now down,
walks over it, rustling,
rustling; last night I dreamt
of the leaf-covered man
in full moon midnight light,
the wind picking at the leaves,
pulling them. I woke,
went outside, to my knees,
scraped up the leaves
on the lawn, carrying them inside.
I started stitching them together
to make a leaf coat,
but as I pulled the thread tight,
they always ripped, too dry,
and fell at my feet, kept falling
at my feet, until they were at my knees.
He still waits for me.
Under every tree but one
are fallen leaves.
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