The smokey stains
on your front porch light.
Sooted reminders of the 
finite and 
desperate gnat.

Long past springs and summers 
bleed 
by.

A wooden box now sits
on a forgotten shelf.
Caramelized and oiled,
a from-within sheen 
emanating from

the timeless touches of a 
young 
boy. 

The leaf slowly drifts down,
loosening from a branch that scrapes
the sky. 
Guided by the South wind’s 
gentle caress

it lights atop the head of a 
little 
girl.