Last Fall’s leaves, the ones I couldn’t
snag with my lazy too-short arms,
skitter and run across the grass,
like they’re being chased by Winter,
though Winter passed this path
weeks ago. They flip and whisper
like the pages of a diary to me,
helping recall when I was younger
and the days grew shorter.
Some loosed from their branches too late,
missed their connection, and spent
the frigid times racing into and
out of windward shelter.
Funny, for all their running, the leaves
leave no mark upon the land
save for the invisible ink tracks they
write within me. If I followed their
undetectable path, I’d churn up mud
and mess and ugliness that would
spoil Spring’s pastel palette to come.
That’s why I sit here and transcribe
their twists and tumbles, their stories
of lives spent dancing and running
on the wind, like the leaves I let fly
from my journal’s long reach,
like an old oak who’s ready to let go.
Poem #6 of Poem-a-Day NaPoWriMo 2015. No prompt today. Just watching the leaves rush past my Emily window.