The Autumn Leave
The autumn leaves are not as they seem.
The ends of the forest lay still and while
the spool of time twist on their roots,
the ghost-quiet winds blow out of the thick
of the dense, luscious green of earthy mound,
a single leaf, of a rosy red and a tint of orange.
The holiday spirit seeps into the blood of the town.
But the autumn leaves are not as they glow.
They pass by long-gone works of men and take
a trip from winds to bring them south, into
the children’s eyes, as they go to rake
upon these floating jewels of reddish hue.
As soft-served hands touch upon its veiny stems
The autumn leaves are not as they feel.
They taste of maple, some of them do.
The children try to squeeze the red out of the stems,
but none of them do.
Parents pick up their crying children as they
remove the red fluff from their children’s mouths.
For the white oaks that lay at the forest’s foot,
the guardians of that sacred forest,
know something is amiss.
The autumn leaves are not as they taste.
To those whose minds wander far too deep,
into that forest, whose nymphs dance between
the trunks of large hornbeam guards that stand so tall,
they find what they’ve been thinking of.
220 centimetres long.
71 centimetres wide.
60 centimetres tall.
And they lay there to never return.
As a blanket of leaves fall on top to set those men to rest, they knew:
the autumn leaves are not what they thought.
they smell of rust, of Ironwrought.
For by next fall, when the winds come to town,
carrying their children back into empty arms,
The missing men of Haber Hall
return to their loved ones, their wives, their kids,
in loving arms, into a crushing hug,
The Latefather was right.
Maybe the autumn leaves are not as they seem.