A shaft of late afternoon light spills
across the fallen sycamore leaf,
its broad ivory underside facing up from a bed
of crumpled maples, and a single gray maple
resting atop it, tenderly, it seems, grace notes
of red, green and yellow flowing past, the whole
of it breathing some soft, nostalgic song.
It carries me into a dream of a quilt that covered
my great grandmother’s bed, where I would
fall asleep gazing at its patterns and the stitches,
so tiny, so carefully placed, while she cooked
in the kitchen, quietly singing that her bonny
lies over the ocean, over the sea. I watch my mind
place the image of these November leaves
atop my grandma’s quilt, and I nod, smiling.