Maybe it’s good to know there’s always
another morning that could be different
from this one: the sun barely lifting below
the trees, and the boy across the street
raking leaves. It’s not his house but he’s
been here the past few weekends combing
the grass with the precision of a barber,
taking a step back every once in a while
to admire his handiwork. He heaps as many
leaves as he can into his hands and against
his chest, ferrying them over to the curb.
A few of them slip neatly from his grip
and into the wind, settling down into
a trail that he can follow on his return
trip to the pile. But maybe it’s also good
to know that this is the morning we were
given, that as the cold sun rises it covers
us both like a greenhouse, the light playing
tricks with our eyes so that we almost see
the wind darting along each edge of crystal.
Sometimes this is the way that it is, but I can’t
help wondering about that other time, and whether
those leaves would have also been beautiful.