in the eyes of a tired stranger
folded between words in a letter
tucked into the loft shelves
floating beside autumn winds
unsuspected, under hot pink petals
I don’t see the weekend tourists,
the sticky fingered children,
the sun soaked fishermen casting off the docks.
Instead, I think about Magellan and wonder
what inspired him to keep navigating
in that giant, infinite circle.
steamy oatmeal with brown sugar
the sound of crunching leaves
Irish sweaters
purple mums
warm blankets on the bed
coffee with pumpkin scones
amber leaves
old flannel
crisp morning breezes
frost on the grass