When Your Phone's Not Ringing, It's Me Not Calling

I stood in the front doorway
as a full moon began rising in late
afternoon light, the wind blowing
cold and dry out of the east,
the fig tree almost bare now,
its leaves strewn across my yard

Yellow, brown, these leaves that once were
alive, connected, attached to something
larger and alive, now alone, dead, disconnected

The last leaf goes in a Santa Ana gust,
the moon up now over a purple sky,
the tree's been blown clean,
stripped of everything that breathed air,
absorbed light, the tree's alone and dormant
and the cold wind still blows.