Only a Leaf
By John Herlihy

It was autumn.
The air smelled of smoke.
A gentle breeze held cool edge.
They sat under a tree, an aging oak,
Its falling leaves bled the color crimson.
In flaming tribute to the dying season.
They were still strangers, newly met.
The cold morning moon had nearly set.
His heart warmed by three seasons.
Her heart aflutter for many reasons.
His conversation but inconsequential.
Her hesitation somewhat substantial.
The line of his smile held invitation.
The light of her eye a proclamation.
They stood up to take their leave,
Under the arching, oaken branches.
He paused to escort her through.
When she passed, she felt his touch,
Lightly brushed upon her forearm.
Still, it may have been only a leaf.
Such things happen in autumn.