Both me and the poem. It's the first one I've written in seven years, and the first one that came to me unbidden in something like 20. I'm only posting it because CoolDad asked. And because, well, later on I may wish I had.
A drift of fallen leaves, tire-stirred, wings toward the windshield.I feel the swift conviction that really, there is no glass:This time, protection will not protect.I duck, just slightly.Of course the brown flock flutters crisply around the carAnd I’m left somewhat sorry after all,Wishing I could have tried to catch one in my hand.