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.