leaf piles.

My legs have been wanting, more than anything, to snuggle their toes cosily into grass, feeling the crunch of forgotten, fallen leaves;
to spring into a mountain of red, yellow, and orange;
into the fire of autumn: the ceremonial bonfire which welcomes the snow.

My hair wants to intertwine with, lace her fingers with those of the fall;
become so tangled up in careless, child-like play.

My arms want to swim through the colorful, cackling pool the trees have made for them;
make snow-angels that smell of crisp earth, sunshine, and the gentle, constant breath of the season.

Though it's been raining,
raining for four days straight.

But today it stopped.

I looked outside to see that every tree was bare
and that my host dad had raked up all the leaves,
detaining them in big, black garbage bags.

They're sitting on the curb.