A just-right angle
The soft September light says, “Look who’s over here.”
“Who?” I say and step off the trail.
Two small asters shine on a moss-covered rock.
“Oh, thank you, Sun, for calling out to me.”
Not so Common Milkweed
The crack reveals brown seeds
attached to silky parachutes
layered
unaccidentally.
I widen the opening
to the wind.
Which will take root and bloom?
Will they come true?
Across the bottom of the beaver-created pool, yellow leaves lie scattered, glistening like gold coins in a fountain.
I make three wishes as I drop a birch, maple and oak leaf into the slow-moving water.
En route to the forest floor
They
twirl
twist
tumble
sashay
float
drift.
It’s harder to catch a falling leaf than you might think.
I can’t just call them all brown
Dry, brown leaves cover the trail. I collect several and ponder the nuances of brown.
Oak and maple, more red. Beech and birch, more yellow.
I turn the leaves over and find more variations.
At home I arrange the leaves from dark to light and open the kitchen cabinets to look for words to help me describe the subtle differences – ground cloves, allspice, nutmeg, cinnamon and coriander; honey, molasses, maple syrup and cocoa.
Soon the counter is covered with flavors.
November feels warmer.
I wonder if their encounter was a poem
No words
No rhymes
But definitely tail-wagging rhythms,
Repeating stanzas of approach-retreat
As she circles the tree,
Curious,
Asking the fierce-looking possum,
“Do you want to play? Do I really even want to ask?”
Leave a comment