Old poetry never diffuses into the air, but rather becomes a part of me, like a stranded maple leaf changing color. Verses light my brain and curl my hair— a mixing bowl of music and reverie, because old poetry never diffuses into the air, and never turns a shade of dolor with a note of anxiety like a stranded maple leaf changing color. There are books scattered everywhere; some spines vertical with words running horizontally, proof that old poetry never diffuses into the air, or on those certain days when poetry is a blur, sipping sepia from a glass of tea and watching a stranded maple leaf change color. I know that I’ll never see old poetry just diffuse into the air as I know words will forever be like a stranded maple leaf changing color. -Samantha Derleth