Unfastened

.

Autumn wind, its pummel, barreling down streets,
carrying me. Leaves battling to hang on like small
children being led to bed, never unclenching.
What is there before them but uncertainty?
Are we that different, not willing to stay young?
In the early morning mixture of calm and rustle
I awaken alert to the unreal, piqued for the unnatural.
Something simple grows more significant, unseats
moorings, rips off hinges creaky from underuse.
Into amber wind, unreleasable numinous stream,
fly my seven soaring senses. Looking down, if only
to find where I once lived, little house, gray
shingles, so many closed windows.

.