The Yellow Leaves of October

After the rain, leaves fall in the wind.
Spots of color on the forest floor.
beneath them are the older corpses,
dull and still crackly under your feet.

The air is clear and impossibly blue.
Birch leaves rustle like tiny tambourines.

You are finally far enough that there are no sounds.
There are no things to do, no people who need you,
no one to hold together for.
not even yourself.

You can die here. Cry here. Rise here. Dance an old man’s dance.
You can give your darkness full rein. Release it all.
Love. Lust. Lostness. You release it to the wind
and like the yellow leaves of October,

they fly away.

About this poem. 

There are few places and times you can let down every wall and barrier and be exactly and completely what you are. Those times are precious and powerful.

As an aside, this is the first poem ever that my spell check did not scold me once. First time ever. I am (he said proudly) one of the world’s worst spellers.

Tom