El barro no esta revuelto

There is a tree
     I always pass on the way home.
I watch it constantly
   waiting to see if and how
it changes.
   The reds of autumn 
remind me, almost, of
   burnt pumpkin seeds --
salted, splitting them cautiously
   a crack resounding
in the head, signaling sweet seed.
   Also time.  Also darker greens.
A life of falling, nothing ever lost.
   Once I confused your argyle sweater
for the pattern of my life.
   I stole it, brown, cashmere,
the crack of fallen leaves
   that weren't dry in the first place.
It's the dirt that was.
   That's what we really stepped on.