Discarded Grief
Look at this leaf.
Where did it come from?
Stuck in a mud, like a
discarded grief from a weeping willow.
I like its shape.
Follows my hand. Pair it
in two and you can make a glove
or a puppet doll that says “I love you!”
It’s full of wavy hurdles,
a caterpillar’s slalom track.
Can be frozen, curled or wet,
wears all season’s colors like a traffic light.
Enjoys to float, especially in waters of Hoogvliet
rushes to meet other leaves,
while gives a ride to marsh fleas.
Once it went disguised,
I couldn't recognize it.
Dressed in the lost feathers of
floating white hearts and undived “quack, quack”
pretends to be a Sioux Holy Man.
It may come in different sounds too.
Like a bandmaster, it orchestrates winter winds in dramatic
symphonies.
Or, when a thickening fog occupies city parks
still dark and tainted from night,
you hear a crunchy, cranky sound as it get’s
crushed under lover’s heels or
sporadic brave joggers,
in short sleeves.
Dissipated in the air
it’ll wait for its turn,
to blossom proudly again and stare
how spring Sun in the west burns.
Hey little leaf
you would like to crawl into my pocket
like a sneaky thief?
I’m lonely too,
keep me company
in my autumn view.
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