Blown

Fall storm winds rattle
loose windows. These leaves can't choose
when they'll flutter down.

An urban autumn's song

There are no harvests
here. There are no boundless fields.
There are lonely plots
cornered by sidewalk and street,
fanned by the limbs and leaves, green
and not yet feeling
the fall. When they drop, they’ll drift
and pile, and mark the passers
by, too hurried to notice
a fall came without yielding.

When shadows move

This poem was inspired by a very brief incident. Staring out into my apartment building's courtyard, I saw the dancing shadows of leaves on branches moved by the wind. It looked to me like rows of hands clapping. I struggled a bit trying to capture it in verse -- a fact due either to a bit of rust or my current dark mood.

My shadow leaves
By Francis Scudellari

My shadow leaves
A frayed, feathered dying
Cast against facing brick

Layered shapes lit
By the down-slanted rays
Of west-directed sun

Blurring movements
Conducted by branches
Not far, but beyond view

The wind-tossed shake,
Shimmer, a rise and fall
Of one-hundred paired hands

All applauding
Re-told dramas un-scened
Nature's final curtain

Drawn close, thick folds
Tinged orange-yellow sad
In autumn's fading light