There's something about a warm wind
The air full of leaves
Torn down from the trees, swept up from the ground
Unwilling to settle into rest
They sing like a Shakespearean chorus
Preludes in a minor key
Foretelling fates but leaving the stories themselves
Suspended: waiting to be acted
But also not quite written
And what looks like a gray November morning
Is stirring with the scent of not yet
