To Mulch
Late February
in our front hall
I reach for,
touch
the dried leaf
on the wood floor
fully expecting to pluck up
a lovely lacy leaf right before
it floats away.
But that light lacy leaf
about to waft away
rebels- crumbles ... mud
from a boot tread
now dust
on my finger tips.
poem copyright ©2023 Anne Selden Annab
