It is the leaves I speak of
turning and plummeting through the air
like they’ve forgotten how good they had it
up until now, a sweet view,
comfortable and familiar, so fair
one could lose themselves in the soft
chattering, windy white noise
.
But some fond memory prickles
incessantly, each moment in each day
of being spritely and green
wrapped in all the joy and fear of youth
the longing of late evenings
Where is the excitement?
it is better to get on with it
rush headfirst into the inevitable
.
Do the leaves remember
when they emerged from this ground
a small sprout
much different than today
Return!
like a child clinging to their mother
though 10 years have passed
.
what if, what if!
Let’s go back and resurrect
keep the changes we have made
start fresh like not one day has passed
.
the bloody blessing about change
is all that’s missed once you notice it
.
This homecoming season
a muddy homage
leading each leaf downwards
in a spiral towards death
Pessimistic? This was bound to happen
falling
in and out of love
with a life cultivated kind and patient
The tree is barren now, lonely as I look up
and before all this madness,
the most beautiful rich red only like the sun
In memory I feel its heat
brief and gone
.
Why couldn’t they stay put,
before I got to really look at them
and before I got to really love them
.
It is the leaves I write of,
certainly the leaves
recent 