Leaves

On rain-slicked sidewalks in late fall,
the year’s leaves are flat-plastered,
as full of gloss as mussel beds
that cling to the bold coast of our region.
These are palisade cells collapsed
from absorbing the sun, and looking again —
beautiful orphans now undone.

Colors and shapes are always telling us.
The star-shaped leaves lighting this path
have fallen from a fragrant Sweetgum tree,
a species whose heritage woods were once
employed for the highboys and lowboys
that endured from whaling to prohibition
and into the dens sporting Fiberglas™ curtains.

There is comfort too: that flat stars
should quicken the ground, like the floor
around a mother's sewing machine —
each leaf some scrap of coming to age
that settles as quietly as cloth.
Their stems point in all directions,
and a rare, curled blade holds water.

First published in Homage (Ebb Tide Editions, 2024)
Homage: Travel Stories & Essays | Poems | Contents At-A-Glance