It could be play-dough
or paper snowflakes,
a composition of notes
musical or erudite,
or pickling cabbage for winter…
or this intense gaze over the field,
bright gold against sweet blue,
a swirling dance
provoked by scouring wind.
This view from the couch,
where green is unmasked,
its true colour deepening the orange flame
… no jars for this containment,
piercing and humble,
no careful labelled row upon the shelf,
no audience,
no room to tape this on the fridge.
Harvest now,
not as a collector of leaves;
be moved by their connective shimmering,
let movement whirl you
to the stillpoint
where there is no holding.