Saturday, August 29, 2015

Another leaf down

I remember well the day the following poem was written. (It was yesterday, in fact, if such a mad thing as yesterday exists.) The grandchildren were here and in their usual sublime uproar. As I was not needed at various times (the question of the value of my influence aside), I returned to the writing of these lines. It was very warm, cloudy, and humid out. I had twice been in a good sweat playing and working in the yard. We were all waiting and hoping for rain. We ate fresh cucumbers from the garden. We picked peppers and squash and tomatoes. All joy. Rain came last night, accompanied by lightning and thunder. Praised be. Praised be the morning, and these “ghostly-scented rooms.”

Another leaf down

Another leaf down, and how I cling to my life,
the spent grass of it, the brittle dead mass of it, the sad stink
and orderly class of it, and think it all means what it seems to the last
of it, another leaf down, my right and my wrong and my front
and my back of it, another leaf, placed flat neath my glass
of it, another, and then the dark wind, and the rush
and the curse and the joy and the blast of it,
when, how strange, and praised be,
I see another leaf — is me!


Jan said...

You are fantastic with words, William...I loved this!!! The words just rolled like melted butter off my tongue as I Read each line!

This line I absolutely love...and I quote;

"Praised be the morning, and these “ghostly-scented rooms.”"

William Michaelian said...

That’s great to hear, Jan. And I do love butter. And I know you understand my need and love of rain. Thanks, as always, for being here.