watching the leaves fall one at a time, I recollect our vacuum

 

by David Morris 

Because you are allergic I clear the filter, and each time marvel anew at the fuzzy clump of intertwined castoffs– our dead skin cells shed singly; our hairs (your grays, my I’m-no-longer-sure-what-to-call-it-anymore color); our oils the transitory binding. 

I cringe before the wastebasket, reluctant to dispose of this little bundle of us. Instead, I lovingly place the linty mass at the balcony’s edge. Approve of the wind’s grab, running it out of sight. Perhaps this offering can serve to line some critter’s winter nest.

gust scraping ground clean

forecasting bitterly cold

I saw a cloud swell