Leaves Rarely Fall One at a Time
Poets pile words and rhythms
finding order in disorder
the essential in random
the essence of nature.
Leaves rarely fall one at a time.
When they do, it’s mesmerizing,
an acrobat putting on a display
with loops and turns in endless array
wearing colors fading to decay.
The newly planted three-flowered maple
was in full leaf, all green and pliable
with exfoliating bark like Gypsy Rose Lee.
Its leaves tinged by sunburn
and we thought it would not survive.
We soaked it overnight for weeks
and hoped for the best.
When summer turned to chill,
golden hues gilded each leaf
before the fall began,
leaves doing their gymnastic routines,
stacking themselves in pillowy heaps
proof of life.
Poets carefully observe
nature arranging itself like a poem.
Wishes in the Wind
Winds howled out of the south
like banshees prowling,
politicians with something to prove.
We sat comfortably on our worn leather couch
watching the bluster of leaves and untethered debris
carousel down the street
followed by a tiny person
in yellow galoshes and a red mac
rapidly clomp-clomping after a pet or a dream.
Who goes out in a windstorm?
I asked Abbey, my brilliant poodle
confidant, keeper of secrets
guardian of my sanity.
She stared back with large dark eyes
full of wisdom and tender advice and replied
someone who finds wishes in the wind.
Leaf Tromping
Grandpa’s favorite season was fall,
walking with my soft toddler’s hand
in his, using me like a compass
giving direction to our tromping
through the dried detritus of nature’s cycle,
sharing stories of his childhood
joyful memories of kicking through leaves
while his father told similar remembrances.
I repeated the same seasonal rite
with my son, generational lore
prompted by ambers, oranges, reds,
the shift from scrunch to squish
after an air filtering rainfall,
the scent of mold and mildew,
of purposeful decomposition.
Ash and maple leaves seem to turn
later and later each year,
summer’s warmth lingering,
fall fading into a shorter, harsher winter.
Will I be able to walk my grandchild
with a soft hand held in my callused palm
pulling me with the excitement
of an explorer in new lands,
lands with altered seasons?
No comments:
Post a Comment