Shaking Leaves

Leaves rush past the window
thrashing more than dancing.
But skip they may slowly

should the fierce wind calm its blow.

Wooden bowl nestled on a sill

silent, still
holds dark red apples
in its mouth—
remembers standing tall

in a former life.

Leaves rush past the window.

Wooden bowl still on the sill
its sides itching for a kiss of wind
shaking its once leaf-laden arms.
Jennifer Ruth Jackson
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