Leaves After The Storm

A few last leaves hang on the limbs behind your house.
Stalwart survivors of wind and rain,
Passive and persistent, they bring laughter to your lips.

You personify everything. You always have,
giving meaning and life to things that have neither.
A trait that has caused you grief and anger,

and often, at the same time, taught you lessons
and history and a personal mythology. By now
it is a thing of choice. Mostly you choose not to.

You have to tell me directly that you hate me,
hate my words, hate my patchwork life
before it will occur to me that you do.

I don’t take hints. I don’t take offense nearly as often
as I once did. I am hurt far less,
But still, I give life to things that do not have it

and I think about these last leaves.
I imagine them laughing as I have once laughed,
underestimated and bright in the sunlight

for one day longer than the season expected.

About this poem

We had quite the storm all day yesterday, with berserker winds all night and all day. Rain. All of it. Most of the bright leaves of the season were stripped from the trees. But not all of them.

I have a weakness for survivors. Perhaps because I am one.

Tom