Somehow the leaves never caught up
With the spring in my mother’s fingers,
And the newspaper lost a headline.
We collected seasons like a prayer,
and we were aware we were no Gods,
but the air remembered to leave
its dirty shoes behind
before entering our mouths.
Worms inhaled slowly, and died without knowledge,
and if we came from the same earth,
my father’s music would be the only music I’d love
but I already missed a note behind.
How do you run to catch a whistle that you cannot hear anymore?
How do you run to listen to the wind?
Tell me, how do you run to save an autumn you’ve left so far behind.