in autumn a girl's thoughts turn to glitter and trees gone golden and far off red and she is reminded that all things end, all things; it is nine months from the morning her mother died, and this cold november morning welcomes a new person, her bones the branches of an empty fig tree.
i stood in her backyard this weekend, leaves ankle high and shushing my thoughts,
at 6 weeks, the heart begins to beat in a regular rhythm,
by 8 weeks i had ghosts of fingerprints and i left them on the walls of her house,
at 2 months, the embryo responds to prodding,
at 4 months, quickening,
i moved on my own through the beginning of the summer's heat.
flocks of leaves huddle on the tree limbs, nestless, settling for the night against the wind they cannot defeat, all things end, all things, and she walks away from their emptiness into the warmth of the house.