Cindy Buchanan

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The Scattering of Dying Leaves

Late summer and the red buckeye
weeps brittle leaves from too much heat.
Brown shards scrunch, crumble underfoot.
Any leaves still clinging droop hunched,
exhausted. The ashen trunk moans
matte gray with need for what’s been lost.

My mother moans with thirst for lost
mobility, mourns how her veins,
bones, roots of intellect stiffen.
She droops. Days fragment. She clutches
tissues. Red crescents scar her palms.
White shreds scatter beneath her chair.

Cindy Buchanan grew up in Alaska, graduated with a B. A. in English from Gonzaga University, and lives in Seattle, Washington with her husband. She studies poetry with Jeanine Walker and is a member of two poetry groups. Her work has been published in Cirque, ONE ART, Hole in the Head Review, The Inflectionist Review, and other journals. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net. Her chapbook, Learning to Breathe, was published in 2023 (Finishing Line Press) and her full-length poetry collection, Hungry Ghosts, will be published by Kelsay Books in 2026. Find her at cindybuchanan0219@gmail.com