Fall

Early November and the first 
cold of the season. I've been 
coughing all week, my sore lungs 
bitten by the sharp autumn air 
the same way that skin blisters 
in the heavy light of summer. 
My daughter lies in small 
heap next to me on the old 
slipcovered sofa. I watch her 
muscles twitch under a restless 
hedge of sleep, her body 
tightened and finally flattened 
by the violent throes of the 
stomach flu. Outside the 
living room window, the solitary 
maple tree in our neighbor's yard 
looks as though it’s been dipped 
head-first into a can of crimson paint, 
red on top but still green on the 
bottom, and I wonder why the 
body is slower to adapt to the 
weight of change, why the 
heart is slower to comprehend 
what the head has known for 
so long, and why, like the leaves, 
so much must happen before 
we are ready to fall from 
the branches that bore us, 
to trust the air that slowly 
carries us down.