In the back flap
Of my billfold
Three leaves,
Three tufts of cypress
Pressed, soft,
One for us each,
From that first taste
Of wild, your fire heart,
Tongue wagging,
Eyes to the wind
Your fur lifting
With the weeds
Gone now, so gone,
And I reach to catch
Them as they fall
From behind receipts
Faded, ink forgotten,
Soft, still green,
still falling.
I’m still falling.