I've been thinking

I watched a movie about a poet – Keats
Perhaps this is a poem
perhaps not
 
I spill my coffee on my hand
warm and wet and fragrant
It runs down my sleeve
chilling and icky
The leaves blow around me in madness
golden and red
A red tailed hawk soars by going about her business
golden and red
I am late, what does it matter
time slides away
I am alive
sad and alone
I remember you
I     remember    you
 
(Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?) Keats