|
| leaves |
| 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) |
