Listening to the Leaves
When I first arrived, green was the only voice I heard,
The only sound, for boundless spaces up and down, around.
Even the wind and the water dared not deny it its harmonies.
But now, at the finish of my third day,
Audition tells me that the trees', shrubs', and vines' viridescence
Has begun the inexorable succumbing to silence,
The muting of most all but the coniferous foliage.
Seasonal about-face, portending accents and odors of decay,
The desiccation, dissociation, dislocation of colors and shades —
I hear it in the withering, shriveling, brittling of ferns turning brown,
Red and sugar maples, as well as poison sumacs,
Assuming the slowing crimson and scarlet beats of human hearts.
Even though Eastern cottonwoods and birches are yellowing subtly
And oaks are too dull to take collective notice,
I'm guessing they must know their shedding is but days away.
It's so stark, this vast transformation that occurs
Once the earth determines to give up its singing greenness,
With no expectations of condolence, no weeping, sorrowing, grieving.
The process seems so utterly lacking in compassion, so merciless —
The indifference accorded inanimate lives, that is.
After all, they do exist, have bodies, spirits, and souls, don't they?
And if so, why should their dying be any different from ours?
It shouldn't be, should it?
You and I attend others' funerals as if they were the end of existence.
But for the leaves, do we mourn, pray for those they abandon?
We go about our evanescent routines remorselessly,
Deaf to the reality that without leaves, we couldn't breathe.
09/22/11 - (4)
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