Archive
10/19/08
Oak Leaves
Millions of brown oak leaves blanket these grounds. I'd not even be able to count, most likely, Those nestling in the grass surrounding your plot, This still-warm, late-October afternoon. Easily, there must be thousands,
Each a piece of the season, A symbol of the cyclical nature of existence and decay, The presence, absence, and renascence Of everything from human beings to trees — All creatures and things imbued with corporeality.
Sitting not twenty feet from your ivy-covered sleep, I say, aloud, "Hello, Dad. I love and miss you. How can almost six years have whisked by?" And I listen for your answer, from oblivion's distance. But all I hear are oak leaves whispering as they fall.
10/19/08
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