Tom Riordan

The Leaf that Waited in the Net

What breaks through

from the day’s events

and speaks to you

is too complex to forecast

or then afterward evaluate

with any certainty.

This morning for example

I went outside to the pool

to skim the leaves

and found one, shiny red,

already waiting in the net.

SORTILEGE

Fall leaves self-organize

among cabals and covens,

each to drop en masse

on their specific signal

or environmental cue,

a gnostic-nod succession,

though some few refuse

to settle destiny within

the rodeo of mysteries

and leap into unknown—

dry flutterings of Spring.

Paraclete

Unto us lowliest sometimes sweep, descend

And of the curveship lend a myth to God.

    - Hart Crane, “The Bridge”

Poor falling leaves above the pool,

no chance to catch a breath before

another big decision must be made

between a novelty of drift or sink—

if choosing float, must opt between 

adaxial plane up, or else abaxial—

then one by one, in time, succumb

to the ongoing wooing of the floor.

The vast bulk, falling on the grass,

has varied angles to arrange itself,

or be arranged upon the holy waft

they worship as Fate-Song, divine.