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My hands get lost in piles of leaves

crunching softly;

the scent of dirt, and wind.



Thoughts adrift in all those places inside me

where unborn children are still dreams

twirling leaves looking for the right moment to land.



I wonder if they, too, will feel the pull of

earth, and sky



and if one day they will long and dream, as I do,

for endless autumn afternoons

and a tiny hand gripped around my finger.