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I
Falls in slower motion than
the acorns
Its neighbors.
II
Not surreal-red
or orange
or yellow,
but dark rich brown
Arabian horse skin.
The winter drink of
the gods.
III
Stands tall between
my fingers.
A royal curl.
IV
A rounded boundary.
oval mediterranean complexions.
V
The child's magnifying glass
sees eight levels
into its fractal geometry.
VI
Picked up at the meeting of two boys
while colossal men
jump a digital fissure.
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VII
Clear air and mistless landscapes
reveal a storm of followers
on their seasonly gait
to earth.
VIII
I use the treasure
ushering at a spiritual pitsop
on the speedway.
IX
Recursive information
packed into tiny
postmarked DNA packages.
Sprouting into space filling
branches of life.
X
The leaf upside down
curling
grabbing my knee
with its arms.
XI
Stem detached with
an assured autumnal clipping.
So dead.
XII
Without me.
Between rakes
in a black bag
under diapers
in and out of worms.
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XIII
Without bowing to other colors
it's lively and supple.
XIV
Labrador amongst the leaves
unleashed.
XV
In all seriousness.
Just a leaf.
XVI
On Plato's allegoric
cave wall.
A claw shadow.
XVII
Color of a lonely red-clad
lifeguard grabbling her
knee up and close to her chest and lips.
XVIII
As a digestive aid for my cat.
A human playtoy
in the jaws of domesticated nature.
Nate Janos
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