Grandfather Leaf
Daniel Henry Rodgers
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"we do not fall alone in Autumn"
threshold
a chilling breeze, a final waltz—Grandfather Leaf
you cling, a trembling hand to what once was
i. invocation
you, the last one—yellowed, brittle
brave
clinging to the knuckle of this dying tree
not just bark and branch but the root
of voices
a tree of blood, of breath, of
memory
this tree once bridged the stars and soil
each leaf a tether, each fall a rite
it bore the fruit of shame and grace
and spoke its truths in morning light
ii. witness
the wind’s a butcher—its blade
hungers for your loosened grip—
no waltz, no grace, no gilded goodbye
just the gut-wrenching shudder of the tear
the final shriek of fiber giving way
i once traced your shadow on the porch
before the wind learned how to take you whole
you hovered once between sky and soil
like a thought too heavy to console
and grandfather reflected,
the leaf does not grieve
it simply lets go
a small hand unclasped
from the wrist of the tree
it falls
not in sorrow
but in ceremony
a quiet bow to the wind
and the earth
receives it
without asking
for anything more
iii. voice (grandfather leaf speaks)
i held on longer than i should have
the sun too bright, the rain too cruel
to bear
but i was part of something once begun
a leaf among the many marked by care
i feel the turning—soft, then sharp, then still
the air, a clot of rot and falling will
i do not fear the fall, but fear
erasure
forgotten—or worse, remembered badly
and grandfather said,
i pressed my last breath
into your maturing stem
this is how we remember
iv. descent
now autumn leans in, cloaked in marigolds
to mark the hour with mist and falling light
the season turns, the story unwinds
the dusk arrives to close the book of night
you’ll rot there—slick, split, a dark stain
and maybe no one will notice
i’m not sure that matters anymore
a meal for worms
a story left unread
a silence that stains the soil
this isn’t death but transformation
a deep-rooting within my grandfather, my veins
and he murmured,
i do not fall
i return
to the root that dreamed me
the wind is not a thief
but a flute
and i am the note
that dances away
what you call death
i call reunion
what you call rot
i call wine
v. offering (Grandchild transforms)
and i, unraveling just behind your path
feel my own stem begin to thin
the wind rehearses me—awkward
unsure—in letting go
i am not ready
but i begin
and grandfather smiled,
the leaf let go
not with drama
but with a kind of shrug
the branch did not beg, nor break
the leaf did not boast, nor burn
they parted
as old friends do
and i,
walking, watching the empty space,
thought of my own turning
and how quiet it might be
when it comes
wondered if i was romanticizing
what was simply decay
felt the sudden chill of change
and knew
i too am learning
how to fall— not alone,
but among the many who
fall in Autumn
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