What steered the whimsy
of autumn winds?
What spurred tree limbs
To shed their splendor?
What lies in store for leaves
That can flee the nest no more?
Yes–these scarlet leaves,
Which bow and twirl
In a final, delicate waltz,
Which tremble and falter
In fruitless preparation
For a fall that won’t ever come.
I don’t know what is it to birth a child,
But I know how to press my ear to the earth,
To curl my fingers in supplication,
To stare at a blank page until they are clear–
The mysterious whispers of a hundred lives,
And I–the midwife who’ll deliver them into the world.
Does the tree trunk rot and crumble
After its leaves wither to dust?
When Spring comes once more,
Will you lift your face to the sky
And still taste the rain?
(with inspiration from “The Summer Day” by Mary Oliver)
Renée Can(ada) Writes 