the whirlwind

staring with
child's eyes
at a small
tight circle
of paper
and new fallen
leaves
on the concrete
playground
swirling
with all the hint
of what ifs,
what nature
can be, if
she chooses.
it moves
it's whirlwind
self
across the stiff
crumble
of grey ground,
as you sit high
on a tall
steel slide,
cold already
with autumn,
deciding when
or if you
might come down.