I stood with my bare feet
in the autumn garden
waiting to catch the leaf that
floated in the air for a moment
on damp earth.
It was as though the tree held
before letting it go
-and it becoming part of the canvas atlast
in its sea of spotted golds, walnut browns,
I had picked up so many leaves
putting them in pretty painted vases,
or between pages of books.
or in uneven piles under the living room window
waiting to be preserved and
in vintage white wood.
It all seemed to be part of a plan
to hold on to fall a little longer
-to dismiss the thought of a sleepy landscape
and impending winter.
the leaves would get swept to the roadside
and the ones i had kept would crumble
before they could be hung behind glass
on faded yellow walls.
I thought i could paint a leaf somewhere.
On a bedroom window.
like the Spring leaf
Or yellow like autumn
in O. Henry’s
The Last leaf.
the windows would remain
blank for another year.
And the leaves would become a squirrel’s nest,
or a place for hiding peanuts.
until the snow came.
-By J. Hamilton