Shelf Life
I feel bad for the autumn leaves that hang
Around too long, clinging to thin limbs
As the calendar flips to November
Desiccated like the cracked leather glove
Nailed to a wall in a closet
In Chirico's Song of Love
Some of these shriveled leaves never fall at all
Cradled high up within witch’s claw branches
Spend the winter clustered in browned banana bunches
Buffeted to a feeble chattering by paint stripping winds
It's a error to mistake this resistance to gravity
For a form of relative immortality
They know themselves they should have let go
They know themselves the wind was a chariot
All that’s left is a wistful nostalgia for the glossy
Foreign currency orange flourish
Of early October, glowing with colors
Before ever knowing they had once been green
Exultant from all the attention of
Everyone suddenly interested
Taking pictures, pointing up at them in the sky—
Fluttering against the deep blue sky
Feeling beautiful and worthy and whole
Without ever wondering why
No comments:
Post a Comment