I've been thinking about such markings, especially as I harvest all the leaves that are currently falling in pre-hibernal zest. I said to Pam the other day, "It's too bad energy folks haven't figured out a way to capture the pizazz of leaves to make something useful for human beings...after all, like waves, rain, and wind, we can count on them falling every year. What a waste not to find more use for them."
I think the autumn months are always transitional ones.
We're nesting into the darker, colder days of winter and this always has me thinking about where I was, where I am, and where I am going. I thought of a poem Ipublished via the Louisville Writing Project and post it here as I think ahead and contemplate my own life patterns. He's there, then here, then over there. Such an anxious, wandering fellow.
his leaving (a
sestina)
~Bryan Ripley Crandall
he never turned
back. packed his bags and left
beyond a circus
and history in his pocket.
“goodbye, old
world.” he promised. “i’m on my way now,”
and stepped on
the gas to drive away.
that was when he
was younger;
fledglings have
reasons to leave the nest.
he walked onto
his porch, today, & saw a bird fallen from nesting.
glanced at
telephone wires to see if winged parents had left
this featherless
embryo with its bulging purple eyes, so young,
and a beak open
for insight (the creature could fit in his pocket).
youth fallen from
its house, so quiet. he needed to find a way
to get the lil’
guy into shelter & now
seemed as good a
time as any, he thought. the parents
were away and he
climbed to the roof, found the finch’s nest.
the flight was
his fault. in his world, it’s always
his fault, and he
could never be sure how many days he had left.
he put the bird
in the twigs, climbed down and put his hands in his pockets
to think about
how vulnerable we are when young.
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