Parable of the Leaves
Trees had lost their summer dress,
like stark patterns stenciled on the sky.
Only a lone and wispy leaf
drifted playfully against her cheek.
Fall had arrived…
in fragrant splendor
and all the leaves were brown.
At last she realized, understood…
that dying was their freedom…
they were free to fly in the wind,
to travel places they’d never been,
perhaps to curl up for a nap,
then blow again…
across old Mr.Dooley’s tomb.
They huddled by the smallish stone
of the little girl who drowned
in Sander’s pond,
halted by the bent knees
of the grieving mother
whose tears seemed unable to stop.
Sycamores had lost their ruby leaves
which lay among the gold now
A gentle breeze blew softly
as the wind lifted the leaves,
and they began to drift across
the neighbor’s fence.
to get a better view of the other side,
to curtsy in the next door yard,
to spin one more sashay in the wind,
No, dying was no effort at all