Patched

The leaves are falling slowly
like a million kites in the sky

against the sidewalk
and the puddles
soaking up the last

of the season
the debris and dirt

it's back to number
crunching

to calendars and no light

but we're looking
continuously

for a burst in the pipe
an overflow
of ideas

to warm us on winter nights

making sure to mind
our idleness

with busy hands
and heads computing
the next big thing

I'm sitting
trying to remember
how to make
the tattered pieces
into a spirit enlightened

by time

pushing pulling
until everything is patched over