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A poem

Georgia O’Keeffe, Oak Leaves


The dawn rises pink and orange
to birdsong and honking geese.
The street lights, still on,
sparkle a silvery light.

No one moves outside but me,
a silent witness.
People live so much inside,
and me too, but now I wander 
around looking at bare trees 
and the greenish ground.

Anarchist leaves were carted away
yesterday, now there’s not a trace.
I’ve become used to watching 
leaves exiled
for being themselves,
never gave it much thought
it’s just what we do.

What carpets we would have
if the blowers never came, deep
shags of crimson and yellow ochre, 
Van Dyke browns, leaves 
the color of dandelions
and rubies scattered all around.

Under the bluing sky, the fading dawn
colors, I can hear the earth beneath
my feet cry for its lost dead,
for it’s missing decay.

The granulated fertilizer that comes
in the spring is a fast food greening
the grass, it works, but the soil is losing
its meaning, it remains shallow,
without purpose; 
nothing to reincarnate.

Hardly a soul thinks of all
that has been carted away
or what will be taken next.


© 2018, A. Breslin. All Rights Reserved