The last leaves are golden,
most have already flown. Branches
hang bare beneath ashen skies.
Not so different from when you climbed,
hand over slow hand, waging a war
inside your young mind. One leaf
breaks free, hangs on a moment,
before leaping into the maelstrom.
I imagine a short fall,
sharp jerk and silence;
but it's only a leaf and spirals away,
no note to mark its passing.
Ryan Stone is a incognito poet from Melbourne, Australia. He shares his home in the Dandenong Ranges with his wife, two young sons and a German Shepherd. His poetry has recently appeared in Writers' Forum Magazine, Black Poppy Review, Napalm and Novocain, Poppy Road Review, The Houseboat and Pyrokinection.
This is a very interesting poem, comparing the leaf falling to that of a young child climbing the tree. We are reassured it's a short fall, but it's a bit of shock when the reader is led to believe it's a child; I was so relieved when you said it was a leaf. But also, you make the reader think the leaf falling is also tragic "no note to mark it's passing." Wonderful last line.
ReplyDeleteHaunting and sad, Ryan. And beautiful.
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