November
It is an old drama
this dissappearance of the leaves,
this seeming death
of the landscape
great in a later scene,
or earlier
the trees like snarled magicians
produce handkerchiefs
of leavees
out of empty branches.
And we watch
we are like children
at this spectacle
of leaves,
as if one day we too
will open the wooden doors
of our coffins
and come out smiling
and bowing
all over again.
Copyright © April Bartaszewicz | Year Posted 2007
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