Beautiful Percussion

When I’m being flippant, I sometimes say that every poem is a love poem, and every book is a book about death. As I’ve been reading and writing/attempting love poems this week, I think I might be right about that first part. :) Here’s today’s draft:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedThere is a moment in October just after the first frost settles in the valleyswhen the yellow leaves dance with the green leavesin the tree's topmost branches.They make a beautiful percussion --something like a sigh and a heartbeat -- This is the space of both/andof your hip touching my hip on Willow Park benchof allowing your heart to carry my heartof herenowyes