November Leaves

With the orange and green and yellow leaves

twisting in the wind and light, it was easy

to believe in the old beliefs-just to give in

and think we had wings hidden beneath

the rounding bones of our creaking shoulders,

that someday we'd fly away into the sky.

That starry night with the band playing

and the great ball of mirrors turning

and the magic glinting off your eyes, we could

think of nothing but the feel of each other,

nothing but the smoothness of skin. We forgot

about the water under the floor, the dark pool.

When all the falling began-the whirling

carpet of browning leaves outside, the bodies

slapping into the cold water, the sudden

mystery of it all-we were unprepared.

We had thought the beliefs and the floor

were enough, that they would never change.

Still, there is something wonderful about falling,

and you always wake up before you land-

at least that's what they say- you always

wake up. Or when you hit, it's only water,

and you keep dancing, awkwardly dancing, even though

you're cold and it's dark. Or you fly away.