Falling Leaves.

Autumn had begun inauspiciously slow, but
this morning early in November, the leaves
reached their peak of yellow and flame.
A cool blustery wind brought an azure sky and
triggered showers of leaves tumbling
slowly down like large snowflakes.
It tugged strongly at my coat collar
as it carpeted the lawns in gold.
It sent hickory nuts zinging off my car roof
like sniper bullets in a roadside ambush

As I drive eastward along country roads
lined with tall trees, the sun backlights
the translucent leaves and filters
yellow onto the side lanes.
Banks of still colorful leaves
stretch up to granite stone walls.
The glorious day reminds me of that day
when we buried my father. He passed the
same day in mid-October as he came in.
Might I expire on such a day as this one
before the bright leaves shrivel to dust.

Returning westward in late afternoon, I notice
all the leaves have been knocked down
like the youth slaughtered at their peak
these last two years in our current war.
The now black arms and hands of
trees reached skyward against
the sunset of a too early darkness.


© Sherman K. Poultney 7 November 2005