A handful she

picked off the

ground. Burnished

autumn crinkly

and brown. “Leaves,”

she cried ecstatically.

“Look, leaves,” to her

mother. Her father.

Any one who’d care.

She wanted the

world to care,

she cared so much.

“Leaves,” as though

she knew all

about gold. I

know about

everything and I

don’t care.

All I want

is leaves same

as her.