Autumn by Christine Stevens with apologies to Mary Oliver
Updated: Oct 23
I wanted to calculate
the number of leaves per minute
that were falling from
my blazing maple.
I wanted to measure the moment when
these flame filled shade givers
release their tenuous link
to the greater good
to an indifferent lawn,
joining a battlefield of dried corpses,
the papery remains of their compatriots.
I wanted to count the ways my own life
has detached from itself and descended
into a void
not knowing what lay at the bottom
or if there even was one.
I wanted to know
how many goddamned leaves
I was going to have to
on a windy Saturday in late October.
It was 6.
You do the math.