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) ("Vacancies") |