Poetry

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Last year’s maple leaf, or maybe older still
no flesh remaining, just the dry bones
maybe the veins and arteries,
yes, that may be the way
to describe what remains
as threadbare as old cheesecloth,
paperbag-brown, like corn starch to the touch
complicated intricate structures
a lattice, a spider’s web of design
just resting there, on the lawn,
uncovered in our furious raking
gathering in the loss of last year’s fall
to be turned back into soil
an old leaf, as threadbare as old cheesecloth
a treasure to be found in the green of the moss
the rich whites and yellow
of the wild strawberry blossoms
hidden in plain view
for those who discover their beauty


May 21, 2009
title saved 12/27/08

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