Such lively, crinkling leaves! So why insist
they’ve no substance left once they’ve been so dried,
that ghosts would have more breath, since ghosts resist
the prodding wind when they don’t want travel?
No substance? Deep rose or wet mustard’s
only light, not weight, and brown fades to gray,
but what then are these bunches slipping off
the steps, and why, when I come to the bridge
over the river of leaves, do I feel
spared a wading?
While autumn lasts, the sense
of tannins simmers up a lake of scents.
This at least will vanish without a blow,
but it’s called by memory, grasped—like ghosts,
who are free to play, weightlessly free:
freer, really; ghosts need no summons.
Gail Kathleen Jardine practices music and mathematics by woods and water. Her poetry appears in Claw & Blossom and Songs of Eretz, and her poem Silver Fire placed in the 100 Days of Dante Poetry contest.
Latest posts by Gail Kathleen Jardine (see all)
- Something Underfoot - 5th October 2022
- revealed - 9th December 2020
- Fresh Glimmer, No Cost - 9th December 2020