Last season’s leaves, brown and
Decaying, wetly crumpling
Underfoot and burdened torso
Thick along the line of upward trail,
And then—
Sparse where the trees give way
To wind-swept grasses, and rocks,
And solitude, which is the only thing here
Not in danger of being swept away
But along the way, don’t we wish for, imagine,
Boughs of green shade,
Oaks leafed out in glossy points;
Maples with their soft silver undersides
A younger, springtime promise
Echoed by the brown memory underfoot
That, last autumn, with one brief gust of wind,
Or maybe just because it was time,
Released themselves
And fell, skittering, to form a blanket over Earth
For two girls to find on another unseasonably warm day
To sit upon, with the excuse of sandwiches
That are soon put aside, half-eaten
In favor
Of crumpling the leaves
Of brushing the brittle pieces out of tangled hair and dampened clothes
Only to be pushed and pulled down again and again
Covered and recovered, a resounding joy
Of kissing and kissing,
Of lifting of shirts
Of lifting of hips
Leaves sighing and exhaling and unfurling
And at last, into one another,
Crumpling.
M. Brooke West lives with her fiancée, child, and four cats in the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia, where she is a preschool teacher.
