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 in breeze,
the face-to-face with a sky, with a God,
childhood either, and I sigh,
this shared worry...
© Jonathan Bohrn (1999) |
