leaves

by

A Ten Years Old Poem

Autumn Apologia

Don’t write of every one that falls, from branch at Autumn-time;
Resist those vibrant colours gone to rust and gold, from lime.
No need to mark the pull of breeze that tugs from tender tree;
Better men than we, have said it all, so leave it be.

Don’t speak of sugared-maples, in their burning-glory daze,
Of lazy oaks, slow-turning acorns’ minions to a blaze,
Nor dogwood’s leaves of ruby red, or birch’s honeyed hue;
Abundant odes of homage have been writ to pay their due,

But still, the flutter, floating free, that carries each one down,
The dance of profuse partners, tumbling, tripping top to crown,
Can turn the head unfailingly, the pen to page, so fleet,
Each instance when a leaf descends to earth, its end to meet.

So let’s absolve the impulse, once again, to pencil this:
Nature’s shedding season, bedding down for winter’s kiss.

Kat Mortensen©2010