In the fall we drift along
the tree-lined streets
of unfamiliar places.
Leaves cover everything:
sleepy cars and houses
sidewalks and our coats.

My son drags his foot
beside the curb
like a street-cleaner
but even he admits
we could never hope
to hide these dead
in all the sewer grates.

Joggers and young girls
with dogs pass by
and look at us as if to say
‘you don’t fit our decor.’
The leaves, uncaring,
fall in slow time
wordless to the earth.

I used to think
that streets like these
were only meant for lovers
and their lonely ways,
but how wrong can one be
about yellow, red, and green?

In the fall they drift along
the tree-lined streets.
The man is crunching memories
as he watches his son
run on ahead
laughing with the wind
and leaves.


Perspective, indeed. Written two decades ago when my son was about 6 or 7 as we partook of a special annual ritual begun years before with his older sister–what we called “leafing”. Nature again presenting the context for a moment of being and unfolding process and consciousness. Hard to pick a favorite personal stanza, but I think the fourth is what I personally learned about perspective and being “wrong” about something. There is definitely more than one perspective here, but in end I have always preferred to empathize and identify with my son in the final image. He and nature have and had the last say in this memory.

(1st published here Aug. 26/2012)

This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply