Poetry by Christine Andersen
I don’t know where it came from
since the tree limbs around me were bare—
the leaf was slight, brown,
jagged at the edges
like a scrap torn from
a paper bag,
but there it was beside me
drifting on a cold, slow,
February wind,
keeping pace
as if we were connected
by a slender thread,
an odd companion,
wafting,
remarkable as a sunset,
easy, debonair
falling away with a wink
too elegant for words.
Christine Andersen is a retired dyslexia specialist who hikes daily in the Connecticut woods with her five dogs, pen and pad in pocket. Publications include the Comstock, The Awakenings, New Plains and Gyroscope Reviews, Slab, and Glimpse, among others. She won the 2024 American Writers Review Poetry Contest.
