poem o’ the day



Yellowing leaves rain down.


They’re ready to let go of becoming,

of the color red,

of warmth and wet and photosynthesis.


Frozen nights have prepared them

to seal their veins and

grow cells that will help them scissor away from home.


And they fall all at once, gravity

seducing them to let go

of branch, of trunk, of organism.


The tree’s bare bones promise

spring flesh;

those empty nubs name the variable

leaves to come.


These yellowing leaves rain down, moving towards


Beneath my shoes–their death rattle.


Your abscission layer must have grown thick

before you fell away, before

the early winter I had not forecast.


This heartwood waits for thawed nights

and the color green,

for sun and rain and the promise of petioles.


(written: some fall, some where)



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