She’s peeled off her shrug of russet,
just about ready for her
of The Nutcracker.
Anchored firmly in fifth position,
she stretches her bare arms
skyward, perhaps for a demi-détourné.
She’s the only danseuse left
from the corps de ballet that once
swayed and rustled their
crispy tulle in concert with
the West Wind’s orchestrations.
Now she’s the principal,
evergreens complementing her
in her terra cotta-colored costume
as the dawn lights rise above the roofline,
compelling me to applaud with this pencil.
Despite her snow-broken branch
and wrinkled bark, she’s still
prima ballerina assoluta
of the backyard ballet.
Every year, this last oak on the north boundary of our backyard sheds most of its leaves except for that ring sound its lower limbs. I’ve always called it her tutu, which really stands out when the snow has fallen. She’s dropping her shrug now and we’re supposed to catch some snow tomorrow, but I couldn’t wait to write about her in the dawn light this morning.
The leaves are finally dropping
from the oaks, assisted by
the rain and just enough wind
to yell, “C’mon, already, jump!”
to the tawny holdouts.
Their brothers and sisters
still clinging to the branches
wave goodbye to the soon-to-be
bushels of russet rustlers
who’ve danced across my grass
from one neighbor’s line
to the opposite.
They know it’s goodbye
after learning the leaf life
there on their shelves
of that library oak,
whose counts her years in
in a hundred rings and to whom
this leaf-fall’s nothing more
than another brushing of dust
off her winter coat.
Rainy day observation and photo by your faithful (illustrated) storyteller,
Joseph Hesch © 2016.
As October slides on wet
fallen leaves into November,
the morning wonders if
it’s really arisen. Out my window,
color is a muted thing,
if the reflection of colored light
is something you can hear.
My eyes strain to pick up
any sound that might be more than
a thump or a creak. But no.
The grass has lost its verdant harmony,
where the breezes bend each supple blade
in concert like a vast woodwind section.
The trees mumble like drugged-up hookers
waiting for gravity to finish
stripping them to the skin and
their cold intercourse with winter.
Only in the distance do I hear
the crackle and crash of
the far end of the spectrum,
a roaring row of tympani and cymbals.
The burning bushes stand out like
a bleeding gash on pale skin,
fireworks on a starless night.
And I get on my feet because I hear
their beat within my chest and scuff
in time to the kitchen for
a cup of today.
Wrote one going to bed and another when I awoke. Seems like old times.
End of the Mardi Gras Photo by Joseph Hesch © 2016
When the carny month of October begins descending into November and from there to the passing of the year, it will play the bait and switch with your spirit. The trees don their autumn raiment, turning from lively greens to gleaming golds, bleeding reds and sunburst oranges, only to fly away with your polychromatic joy in windblown death spirals of russet and fawn. Today, October’s grifting insult bordered on injury, shouldering a shivering chill from the north armed with a hybrid ammunition where the temperature’s too cold for rain and too warm for snow. It’s as if the clouds are spitting with derision upon your windshield as you drive by the sad maples and oaks, drooping in their now-tattered costumes like stranded and drenched Mardi Gras revelers, the detritus of autumn at their feet. It’s as if they know the Ash Wednesday of this year is upon us all.
The idea for this piece came from a short drive to the store, past the gray-shrouded maples, in the plastic precipitation that splatted upon my windshield and hung there in a 41-degree insult to the driver who enjoyed an 80-degree day just this week. That’s autumn up here in this land of perpendiculars, where the Mohawk and Hudson meet, tucked into the elbow of the Adirondacks and Berkshires, surrounded by the vertical beauty of the carnival of broadleaf trees, fully knowledgeable that next week you’ll be picking their shabby clothes off their bedroom floor outside your window. The photo above is by the writer, whose view and mood are at perpendiculars today, too.
The Final Bow, II
© Joseph Hesch, 2015
He stares at the autumn trees
as they sway in October’s breeze,
because, like he, they’ve changed
from gin to bourbon, going to brown
and ready to drop.
The trees have forgotten how to color,
to glow in their Northeast neon glory,
the natural Broadway show of SRO
they always did until this year.
No premiere, no revival, no road show
left for the busted impresario
of his own life.
He’s put down his pen since Act Three’s
well upon him and he knows
the climax is out of his hands.
So he stands in the back of the theatre
of his days and sways to the tune
he almost remembers, a whispered whoosh
maybe like the strings bowed
in the overture of his days,
back when the curtains we’re red,
the lights were gold and he rode
the orange sun onstage from the east.
Now he opens his arms to the audience,
dropping vitality like leaves,
in a final sunset bow,
I’m feeling the autumn of my years upon me today. Losing abilities and memories with each dropping leaf from calendars and trees. Maybe that’s why this piece feels so difficult to express and communicate to you.
When I leave you,
dropped to earth
like the ladies’ gloves
I see drifting from the trees,
will you be one to press me
between some covers?
I know we never shared
much but words, images
you might’ve held
in your book of memories,
hugged like a leaf
you hoped to treasure
in its peak radiance.
I hope someone like you
will keep me in their
forever book, even if
we never cozied between
covers. No need now,
when I’m waving to you
from the end of my
tenuous tip of maple.
Goodbye or hello again
is up to you.
The third poem of my Autumn as My Life/Fallen Leaf Motif Trilogy from this week. It was semi-inspired by my friend Sharyl Fuller’s prompt this week (the photo at the end) for her Writing Outside the Lines challenge. I hope this 100-worder is as hopeful to you as I felt in its writing. Happy October 2016, all.
The Emptying of the Year Photo © Joseph Hesch 2015
My remaining days are disappearing
faster than I can live them.
Blinks of sunup to sundown blur
past like squirrels who steal life
from me as if I was a jagged old oak
and they know maybe next year
might be mine to topple.
Where they scurry and bury
what once was mine to have and hold,
like my memory, I’ll never remember,
let alone reach. Out my window,
I squint at daylight diminishing
with each spin of this emptying world
and realize why they call Autumn,
even the golden autumn of my years,
why they also call it Fall.