Leaves

by Mary Beth on November 13, 2017

 

I invite you to welcome a guest writer on mightyrighthand this month.

She’s a cherished friend and writer,

who shines like a rare beautiful gem-

with several artistic gifts for the hungry contemplative mind and spirit.

Her writing often reflects an earthy, deep and beautiful inspiration

in a natural, and profound manner.

It was by request to simply but only list her initials.

Admire and enjoy her creative voice, and the ordinary yet delicate leaves

she collected in the beautiful artwork. ~Mary

 

Sights and sounds of the first day of November:

My excited boots knock softly against the sidewalk.

Knock knock, knock knock, stop.

The tree overheard, rustle rustle in the breeze.

Me-neck crank, crank, craned up, eyes open wide to see

the very first leaf of fall break off and dance in the swirling breeze,

only to land harshly on the ground.

The breeze whispers in my ear, tells me, it’s sorry.

I gaze down at this leaf, this, perfect leaf,

sunshine yellow with scorched burgundy veins.

I hold it, intensely aware of the many stomp, stomp,

stomping boot steps coming toward me.

This leaf too alive, to die now.

It’s skin too vibrant, to be stepped on.

I take the leaf, nestle it in between the empty pages of my now filling notebook.

How many leaves have I gathered this week?

The hands of my watch tick, tick, tick, into my ear.

I sigh, squint eyes at nature’s potential for destruction,

and shuffle on my way.

 

Sights and sounds of the second day of November:

My excited boots once again knock softly against the sidewalk

knock knock, knock knock, stop.

Thirty-seven perfect leaves,

lie flinching on the sidewalk in front of me.

Rustling tree laughs at me.

Breeze blows a too late apology.

Throat tightens.

I can’t breathe.

Boots sprint home exhausting every part of me.

Burst through the door.

See mom over steaming stove top.

Fall to knees.

Yank out notebook.

Ask mom:  “What do I do when I don’t have enough pages?”

She stirs her steaming pot and doesn’t answer me.

I say, “Mom. What do I do with all of these fallen leaves?

They need my help.

Mom, they’re bleeding their colors in the streets.

Mom, they’re dying. Mom, they’re dying. Mom, they’re dying.

Mom, look at me.”

She taps her wooden spoon against her cauldron of a pot,

looks at me with a spell in her eyes, and says quite too simply:

“Honey. What are you doing, trying to save them?

Don’t you know, that fallen leaves,

are supposed to be stepped on?”

 

Sights and sounds of the third day of November:

My heavy boots drag somberly against the sidewalk.

Step step, step step. Step step, step, step.

Tick tick, tick tick.

Breeze blows. Trees rustle. Leaves fall. I walk.

Step step. Step to class.

Keep my screaming hands, inside my quiet pockets.

Step step. Step to class, so I can learn all about fallen leaves,

from safe inside, a university room.

~ M. S.

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