Learning the fallen Dancing-leaves

Drop him off at the clinic
for the ancient devil,

when the early retreat funds
gather like some golden leaves

at the threshold,
swoosh, swoosh, coded message

of the chill wind,
of the stubborn pandemic,

of the November election and
the fate of the neighbor,

the separated family
who came as the illegal immigrant.   

Wish it all be the banal worry, and I will
enjoy the scrumptious sun, with no blush, 

even the fallen leaves
dance in the brisk wind.

©Byung A. Fallgren