Fall unfurls slowly,
fluttering outward
like a heartbeat or a wing span.

It seems I might have lost myself somewhere
among the scarce drifting of dried brown leaves,
in between the wind and the water,
an image of my former self is beached.

I catch her sometimes,
on those cold October nights
when I wrap myself in the blue scarf
she knitted,
and catch the scent of the woodstove
that reminds her so much of being home.

We seem to drift farther and farther apart
as the winds widen into winter,
myself and this girl
who used to be me,
who I sometimes catch out of the corner of my eye.

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