that when the leaves turn
in the wind or in the falling,
you’ll remember. And smile
at the day we spent
under the green ocean dome
that welled above,
each leaf-shake a flutter held,
a quark of forest time
shifting and regrouping,
but yet the whole
—the copse within the wood
that was the whole of it to us—
Slower, the further out we looked,
to where our eyes could only see
an army-band of trunks upholding quiet.
The wood protects us.
It cannot bear for us to see it all.
We are so small.
So when the coming time is here
and you see a leaf is turning
green to brown, beginning
its intention to descend, anticipating
the day of its great fall, twisting,
high above the forest floor that’s calling:
When you see it twist
this way, then that,
testing the stick of its stalk,
the heft of its trust, look.
Look closer, past the color
of its sap, the flow of its line
in space, in time,
and know that it has practiced
what it needs, all summer long,
dancing with the wind.
And think of me
and how I loved the leaves
and brought you here
to see you smile.
Now, promise me.
Sunday is lazy day for me, so here on the blog each Sunday I reprise one of my inspirational poems about some aspect of creative working and living.
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