One crimson leaf falls
from the wizened oak,
victim to the damp breeze
that wraps its tendrils
around the loamy forest floor
I call home. Moleskin never felt as inviting.
Another drops to my shoulder, clings
as if I am a surrogate for its mother,
seeks delicious sap I cannot offer.
I strip a lupine scape, lick it
to a tip, and slowly begin
to sew leaves.
One to another, I stitch
nature's cast-offs
into a sturdy mackinaw.
The night grows
raw, I fall
into bed,
my motley quilt
to keep me warm
until spring's
thaw.
© 2003 Jason C. Jones