falling shy

In the hammock out back, under white skies
veined with mostly-naked limbs and branches reaching up

into the still-cold air, despite
the sun's up there somewhere. Each burst of breeze

disturbs the stillness, sends the tips of branches
reeling, swaying, lifts a ghostly rustle through
the few leaves still remaining, clinging
to what's left of autumn, wondering
what fall is for. Another breeze
comes by, and they decide: another
tiny squad of leaves, bails out
in unison, on signal Go

the target's
coming up below! but off
they wheel, so graceful, whirled
in pirouettes

like asymmetric pinwheel heads

to fall so slow, they spin
so fast, they almost blur

as down they come,
and here they come

off-target, just a bit to left
and overhead, and
further off

toward no one

descending, fanning out
from so far up above. You'd think that

one, at least
of these last leaves
could land on me,

to bring dry, whispery love.
There aren't very many chances
left, and I am not quite yet

happy enough.