Falling Leaves.

b e e n . s i t t i n g .

Been sitting in this room.
This room of falling leaves.
You think they fall from the sky but they fall from the ceiling too.
Puddles and bunches and piles to scrunch on.
Scranch in.
Screech through.
My feet, nimble and quick, pretending to be gladiators, stormers, warners.
Pretending to be God's dooming finger.
I want to leave but I am caught, transfixed.
Like in a snowglobe, dancing, moving, pieces falling, but stuck.
And so I carve.
And smile.
And dance.
Carve carve carve this room, womb, out of rock.
On the side of a cliff.
Overlooking you.
Overlooking the trees, the falling leaves.
Bit by bit as things fall I place.
On the wall, in the hall, on the scent, slightly bent.
Building my studio like I am building the world.
And all the birds can do is dance with glee and look at me.
Straw in their beaks and a glint in their eye.
They know we are the same.
I throw glitter string out the window and borrow a sparkle from their soul.
Until they move forward and so do I.
Winter is coming, but look!
Look at this home I build.