In autumn walking

The falling leaf, is not the tree, not even in the river.

Not even in the early light, nor later during dusk.

These leaves resting here, are reminders of disappointments,

and bookmarks for the days, they didn’t alter, when the wind changed shape.

These leaves this side, further up the sheltered path, are soggy from their wildness.

They didn’t know life off the branch, would be so exhilarating, vivid and short.

under the arc, more leaves are gathered, once dried out from the fear of it.

Fears muzzled in late night shoulder whispers, that echo, “why not?”

And in autumn walking, also these leaves.

Harder to see, harder to hear.

These are the tender leaves, the gentle memory leaves, that tell of us of a time when the tree itself was tiny.

These leaves smile.

They are serene.

The ancestral leaves, familial leaves, our ancient leaves.