The leaves of late September strut and dance,
on this stage once more before their curtain,
leaf-weaved, falls like October from the branch
of which year’s calendar I’m not certain.
The top of that maple, like a fireball,
explodes in bright orange and yellow flame,
while the rest remains deep green and that’s all,
which, dramatically speaking’s, a shame.
Out my window one bleeds red down its side,
like the climax of a drama by The Bard.
So, rhyming these leaves of fall verse I tried,
in his honour, like a sonnet. But it’s hard.
Autumn’s punctuated my years, it seems,
oft with declaration or exclamation.
But the most painful seem to paint my dreams
with primary-colored interrogation.
The Where and What, awake or asleep appall,
haunting me like some All Hallow’s Eve ghost.
But it’s Who and When, come every Fall,
that to this day shame and pain me the most.
This conflicted view of dead Autumn leaves,
despite the beauty they bring to our view,
stems from something I planted but you aggrieve,
since that Fall long ago when I hurt you.
That’s why I still send out pages of verse,
though I’ll never know on which winds they’ll fly.
But ev’ry year at this time, like a curse,
I’m inspired again by that question. Why?
Photo by Joe Hesch