Falling

by Israel Allen

She is magic walking,

a spell to be under.

She is a splash of joy,

the soft touch of wonder.

She is made of silk,

so soothing to the eye.

She is lighter than the winds,

and they ask themselves why.

She moves like grace,

gliding without a sound.

She is supple and slender;

Her feet don’t touch the ground.

She is strawberry and autumn,

golden leaves calling,

and ever so gently,

I find myself falling.