Cambridge

The leaves tremble and shake
off the dark drops of water
and cannot remember a time
when they were not leaves.
Clouds pause a moment overhead,
hanging briefly on a quick wind,
then move on again thinking
that they’ve been there before
and might like to see a new place
under the dark wet,
before succumbing to the nudge of time.
There is pavement here, flat and hard,
damp, cold, littered with puddles,
and friendlier with leaves than you or I would know.

They dance a little jig under the dark wet sky.
The leaves tremble and shake
as the clouds rush by and the trees bend
down toward the pavement lying motionless
to give them a steady rhyme,
a pulse by which the houses creak,
expanding with the water in their veins,
anxious to join the leaves as they tremble and shake
with joy.

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