Running Between the Leaves

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It is that moment of the year
I see and feel the maples
beginning to scab over,
their leaves crisping
dark red as dried blood.
Now’s the time all of me
would always come most alive,
despite my testosterone
running free as coursing
tree sap each the spring.
But that was a blind running,
where this autumn harvest
of another year’s life tastes
of steel and blood. It’s in this
head-up trot and gallop,
I dodge those leaves,
momentarily suspended in air,
as they breathe their last,
musky exhalation before the
return to earth and become
whip-crackling slaves to the wind.
They run faster than I can now,
when autumn gasps and pants
in this race to winter, and I walk
my gray-haired petty pace
from day to day until this
glorious moment of remembered
life cannot light this
too brief candle anymore.

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2 thoughts on “Running Between the Leaves

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