They slipped over the border, refugees seeking asylum from cold, windy dusks. They don’t ask much, just to rest and fade in some warm, dry comfort. Their crispy, leathery husks lay around, here and there, nowhere really, in the stairwell to the basement by the side door, or near the front door. They don’t say a word, and I don’t mind having them.
They remind me of my comfort, being able to close doors and keep out Weather. I like having them, guests from another world, outside, from a place I experience only when I choose, for the most part. A place I can view through the live, TV screen of my window, watching the onieric scenes of tempest and flare or torpid, white heat or perhaps dreams of sugar plum fairies dancing across diamond sheets. From this cocoon my sun is just right, and frigid, locked air is just a thought, or a line in this phrase, but never asks me for my passport.
So these lost, migrant leaves may motel here freely , at least until my mother visits next week.