The leaves fell wet and gold,
stuck matted to the grass,
decayed and sprang as mushrooms
in the dank indian summer.
I smelled the rot of fall
when the rain stopped beating
darkly on the roof and
the wind stopped blowing cowardly.
Too sick to risk the mud
this year I open the curtain
barely, breathe on the window
and call this life,
behind the sterile glass,
beneath the hand of god.