The birds in the poem i was about to write
flew away
into the glittering sky

if not for their idiotic chirping
i would'nt have noticed anything at all.

That's how i stepped into the poem

Without the slightest idea of what
would happen
or whom i'd meet

now that i was in the poem i realised
Noone had trodden here except for these birds


The poem was
thick -- with silence
White -- with three days of snow

the silence and whiteness
filled most of the poem

It might have turned oppressive
had'nt it  been for
the old maple tree
by the
frozen river
with just one leaf.

One leaf -- glimmering Orange bright
as though the sun had left behind - a piece of itself

And it lit the whole poem.

i hurried closer to the river
it was getting dark in the poem
The wind, getting really cold.

i followed my glance
and saw
the edge of the river
which
was'nt really the end of the poem

A slight drizzle began to wet the poem
so i ran quickly through its snowy fields

A gust of wind blew

blew the leaf out of the poem
if not i'd still have been in the poem.

i tried getting back
to look once more at the maple tree

but the poem had vanished


The late evening came in

i stood up to shut my bedroom window
when i heard a crunch beneath my feet.

i stepped on a leaf
it was brown.