Fallen Leaves

This is the season when multicolor maple leaves lead me home. Fallen from the undressed trees, they now pad my pathway. Across streets, over sidewalks, and through the church parking lot. A yellow-amber carpet cushions the rubber of my road bike. When the wind blows from the lake, leaves rain on my head. The flat, moist ones spiral downward, while the dried, crumpled ones have a more mundane plunge to the ground. I can not longer see the cracks in the sidewalk so I can't dodge the big ones, instead my legs burn as I balance above the seat, saving my womanhood. Steer clear of wet leaves, they could be hiding puddles, and if not they're still a trap of moisture. My nineties breaks don't like the rain.