poem

 A Little Death

You ever wonder why leaves seem most

Beautiful in the fall? It isn’t just the color

But the fact they have a little death in them

Now, though soft and rippling in breezes

Still attached to rooted living trees

But starting to show hints of the end 

In splashes of amber, orange and red.

Even when they fall, they waltz down

Unselfconsciously like grandparents 

At weddings just taking their time 

Soaking up every note of the song 

Only when rusted brown and desiccated

To a crust do they start to lose our interest,

Become an unsightly speckled lawn rash,

Detritus to rake to the curb like trash

Scuttling like loose bones across the roads 

When wintry Canadian winds gust through

I have a little death in me now too

But it isn't the gray infiltrating my temples

Or the lines etched around my eyes 

Or the fact my flesh isn't quite as supple.

I’ve seen too much

I’ve budded and bloomed

Spent a life straining for the sun

In order to complete my assigned work.

I let the wind have its way with me
I’ve trembled in spring breezes

Clung with all my might during summer storms 

But now I’m ready for the fall

I’ve even stopped raking the leaves

Littering my lonely swath of backyard.

They’ve become beautiful to me 

Now. And I know the wind 

Will ultimately blow them all away

No matter what I choose to do.

Some things have nothing to do

 with what we do 

Just let winter be the winter

Let the winds howl and blow

Let the rest be buried by snow

9/25/22