Bagging gold for the cold days to come,
I picked up the leaf just fallen from the tree.
Like browned butter, but crisp,
it folded into my hand,
curling in the afternoon sun.
A day later, it is as delicate
as tissue paper and flutters on
a red book in my hallway
as I open the front door.
It will blow away someday,
fall on the floor and
crumble into dust.
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