Fallen black walnut leaves collect water

like mouthfuls of mother’s milk.

Sprouts of still green grass poke flat heads

up between limp brown paper.

I sip coffee at the window

through sounds of splattering drizzle.

The soaked brown paper decorates the yard,

as if ready to be molded for a craft.

And there, the unremarkable becomes:

a cup, a bowl, a moon.

And so, if gazed upon

a lifeless scene awakens.

A dead leaf converts

into a trinket.

A dead scene to a Monet.

A dead woman to breathing lungs.