I stole three leaves from outside. One leaf, two leaf, red leaf, gold leaf. pressed inside English Romanticism, crunchy next to Christabel. Coleridge won't mind. I want to save them for the middle of winter, when the world outside is white and black and 26 shades of gray. By then, the leaves will have been forgotten until they fall in your lap. Surprise! See the change? Pressed and crunchy like corn on the cob but still smell like breeze and chilly mornings and fresh honeycrisp apples and cookies with ghosts in them and handwarmers.
Still red. still yellow. still orange. still gold. still green.
still holding my run this morning, 7:35 am in cutoffs and my old climbing longsleeve.
Press the leaves to my face and remember.