The Last Leaves

 

The Last Leaves

The last of the leaves on the scarlet oak

glisten spritely in the wintery sun

I wonder if they feel joy at the prospect

of joining their sisters on the ground below

or whether they have contests to see

which might be lifted by the wind

And blown farthest from the tree

Outside My Window

 

Outside My Window

 

Everyone should be so lucky

As to have a tree

Just outside their kitchen window

That casts its shadow in winter

As a clock to trace the path of each day’s sun

 

It’s not the squirrels that draw my eye

or busy jays in relentless pursuit of a meal

It’s the movement of the sun across the sky

cast as a slow moving image hour by hour

revealing the placement of each hour’s shadow

 

There’s a comfort in plunging my hands

into the warmth of soapy dish water

watching how the stark bareness of the trees

allows the warming cadence of the day

to relentlessly remind me of the passage of time