Leaf harvest.
September 21, 2013 § 8 Comments
Every autumn there came a day,
(invariably a Saturday or Sunday)
When the colors peaked.
And my father and mother sat in the front seat
of perhaps the maroon Studebaker with the
I LIKE IKE button on the visor.
In the back, my sister and I held empty paper bags,
for the leaf harvest, my brother and his Tonka truck between us.
My father would drive ’til he came to the railroad track,
a silver zipper down the back of the
gaudy dress of September.
While Chris rode Daddy’s shoulders
Claudia and I candled found leaves against the sun.
Beautiful, more beautiful, most! We dropped them in our sacks.
Then home again to empty bags into baskets,
leaves displayed on the record cabinet,
except those ironed between sheets of wax paper.
In the furnace dry-air, leaves curled and embrittled,
until there came a day (invariably a school day)
when baskets were emptied and put away unmissed
Did our leaves join spent teabags in the trash?
Or did our mother stand on our suburban stoop
And offer them to the wind.
Note: Poetry is like wet cement that has been washed in a sieve until all that is left is the aggregate; the words too striking to slip through the mesh. This piece is not a poem. It is a story written small with line breaks. Memory is a near-poem, a handful of fragments, an arrangement painstakingly made from what is left.
that made me feel the cold blustery air and intensely bright sunlight of a clear fall day , from my early childhood in ohio. that was before we moved to miami. words sure can bring back memories, if they are put together just so, the way you do so well.
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I don’t miss the long bleak winters, but a really decisive leaf-turn would be so nice to see again.
That said, these photographs were taken at Bluebird, our land in Wakulla County. Ray keeps his eyes open and his camera handy at all times.
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There’s all types and kinds of poetry … This can certainly be considered a poem. No apologies necessary. Very nice “slice of life” poem.
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Poetry always seems like some sort of secret handshake to me. I know there is more to it than strange punctuation and interesting line breaks. Thanks for thinking this qualifies–I know that you know the secret handshake.
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“a silver zipper down the back of the
gaudy dress of September.”
Perfect!! That image will stay with me all this crisp fall day. Thank you.
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I miss those dramatic northern Autumns.
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Delicious.
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Definitely crisp!
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