top of page
Writer's pictureSydney Elizabeth Chandler

The Fall

They stand tall in the thousands.

Momentous in their tear-shape patchworks.

Each attached to the tree limb by one thin strand, one so fragile

as a string tied to a kite in a summer storm.

And yet, here they now stand.

Spring has been loyal; the leaves grow ever

wild. An unfocused eye may see not thousands but yet one

woven tapestry of flourished green aloft the salt bark. The edges of the leaves

melding into one another – an artistry depicting tangled life and luster;

the smell of them sweet and ferment.

And I wonder, do the leaves know of Fall?

Can they foretell that their spines will brown; their bodies will

curl and thin like parched paper? That they will break from Mother Tree;

fall down unto the earth of which they’ve only seen

from high above

– where the fungi will feast

and the insects will nest and the

leaf will be swallowed by

dirt and dust –

do they know? Are they frightened?

When the days lengthen and the air begins to boil –

do they know that summer precedes

their doom?

Perhaps they do know, and the leaves, they

ready themselves like faithful soldiers on the frontlines of battle,

prepared to fall for those who will follow. Perhaps they understand that through

their decay they shall feed the roots of Mother Tree (as our own flesh will

one day feed the earth that we toil and strive to tame)

Perhaps the leaf is fearless …

When Autumn arrives, and the leaves

begin to fall, I wonder if they may fall with grace. With

a communal sense of courage and loyalty. For valiant is the leaf which falls with

honor, is it not? With gratitude for its previous heights – to fall in one wash of chestnut

and mottled yellow from the limb to become the soil. There

they will lie in the thousands.

And yet, here they now stand. And Spring is green.

And life is wet and sweet with color. The Fall – too far on the horizon to

fathom. I wonder at the impermanence of it all, but

my wonderings too, are fleeting.

92 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Fractures

Pick-pocket change and a trail of dust –– licked clean; huffed deep; a rolled-up tenner in hand –– She tells you she had to put the dog...

La Quinta

So delicate, the mountains stand, like paper-mache experiments sculpted by a shaking hand, no, perhaps a thoughtful hand, one set with...

It Is the Dance of the Dark

The song that pulses wet through the veined blinds on your window – left open. It is the fingers that trace the hollow of your neck, the...

Comments


bottom of page