ELLIPSE
by Sophie Sala
Today I stain pages
with rings of amber and
whistle with the finches. There,
blooming chrysanthemums
like the flesh
of ripe grapefruit. And
the leaves have begun
their departure sans
homesickness.
I wonder if I have, too
as I learn to be unflinching.
What else clings
to the open arms of the
damp soil, the tree bark?
What else changes with me?