Muse

In the mirror I see, framed like a painting a woman caught between the plain in yesterday and the pointy yellow leaves leaving for tomorrow— She chases the leaves, not realizing she never left the field When sparrows stop chirping and her steps can no longer keep up the leaves she caught remind her: this tale only ends in the aftermath of a birdsong She's the passerby you see and forget; She's the milk in your fridge silently going bad— She's the soul you don't read, the smile you can't catch, the sunset by an unmapped coastline.