more than luck

a small
cup of wind turns the leaves,
while we
sit on the bench,
it spins
the scraps of paper
that lie
upon the black top,
funnels them
together, puts them
into
a mystical turn,
not unlike us,
caught in the rise
of affection,
in the convergence of place
and time.
there is something
more than luck to this,
it appears.