last season's leaves, the discards
of trees that hope, maybe, 
for something better this year
or maybe it's just their cleanup routine
either way, it's all done now; 
so now there is purpose
in the precipitous wielding 
of leaf blowers, impersonal power 
over the rejects, the windswept, 
the huddled in gutters, 
the brittle crunch underfoot
underwheels, undertime, 
their dry chalkboard scratching 
reminds me, (I shudder), of me -- 
am I so far gone?
and to look at them, brown twisted refuse,
I don't think they remember the blossoms,
the spring winds, the joyful bending of breeze,
the face-to-face with a sky, with a god, 
childhood either, and I sigh, 
this shared worry...
Jon Bohrn (1999)



index | next