Silent Shadows Under the Rustle of Leaves

 

Togethering

—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

AT THE WHIM OF THE WIND                      
                                                                       
Two leaves
falling slowly
toward the ground
and in that time
become the metaphor
of love—
twirling toward each other
and apart—
lifted and toyed
by the wind that plays them
in the quirk of time—
two leaves that barely
knew of each other
when part of their
familiar tree
to become the ploy
of precocious weather—
finally let go
to hit the littered ground
and become the gist of love,
and the wind just leaves them there,         
experienced and free.

 

 

 

Sidewalk

 

RED TREE IN BURNING SUNSET
After Visland cu ochi deschisi by Andrei Baciu

Red fire-tree with ignited leaves.
Flaming cloud in melting sky.
Floating landscape between.

Under normal sky,
dried grass and a blue house,
a rut-carved road that circles the sky-island,
paths and swirlings—all dark—except for

a red cloud that cannot burn out and
a red tree that keeps its red leaves burning.

This is to determine the “is-ness”
and “mock-reality” that one would believe

, else why would the red cloud respond
to a tree with burning red leaves
, else why would the normal even be there,
the drifting island unharmed between . . . ?

 

 

 

The Golden Year

 

 

THE LEAVES

the leaves are too many
the boy’s hands are too small

there is a slowness around him
that he tries to fill,

but the leaves will not wait,
saying   now!  now! and they fall

and the boy' face
wears a gathering smile

for the leaves are
everywhere—just as he is

with his swift evolution—
with the arrogance of joy and power,

for he will reach
into the falling leaves and catch them all

 

 

 

In the Time It Takes

 

YELLOW TREE LOSING ITS LEAVES

Sound of wind in sudden bursts
in yellow autumn sunlight,
howling free—letting be—all

the restrictions of the mind—
in the half—into the whole, of
listening. What of such a sound

to the ever-lonely—or the
seldom lonely—there—outside
my late-morning window—

interrupting my book, my music.
Come to me, it cries—
has always cried—come to me. 

 

 

 

Forebearance

 

 

FORBEARANCE

when she lay in the flickering sunshine,
when she lay in the rain,
when she lay in the years
that held her,
motionless—
held her
forgotten,
against her will—
when she lay there
unimportant—
without fame,
and she became
the silent shadow
under the rustle of leaves
of the ancient tree
that sheltered her, all these years . . .

 

 

 

Home

 

 

THE LEAVES IN JAMES WRIGHT’S
BOOK OF POETRY

I found the leaf in a book, pressed backwards,
tiny yellow veins defined against the
flattened green of broken outline.

Some keepsake memory,
brittle to the touch.
I did not want to take the leaf
from the page it came to know
nor deprive the page of the leaf—
what did I know of such undoing,
the other leaf waiting to be found,
the patient one—more perfect
than the first, all points intact.

Did the two leaves fall from the same tree?
I only wondered briefly—my admiration
was humble—my touch gentle—
such a strange reverence.

               
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, 2020)

 

 

 

Step Lightly

 

WALKING           

Walking, I came across a mirror in the rain.
It streamed with my face, I walked through it,
without wondering—let it hang there
without me—I became the figure—   
disappearing into glassy distance.

                        _________


Walking, I came across a fall of sudden leaves
with no tree near. I felt them flurry by from
everywhere. There was no wind. I walked
among them, trusting their domain of loneliness.
I became as undirected as the leaves.  
                     
                       ___________

 
Walking, I entered a great singing of birds
but could not see them in the fathomless air,
though they surrounded me.
I knew I came from a songless place to be
among them. I knew I listened from that far.

                        ___________


Walking, I found you again, walking toward me
in the rain. The light on your face was transparent
and I wondered if you would see me… I wondered
if we would reach each other in time, or not in time,
I wondered if you felt the leaves and heard the birds,
and what we would say
to one another.   

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE DRY SUMMER
—Joyce Odam

I crave the blue rain in this dry summer—
I yearn for the falling of the leaves.

I pull to the force of shadows
that remain on the lake of darkness.

I pray to the gods of beauty where
they preen into their melting mirrors.

Wherever the light has lingered
with its radiance—I long for the blue rain.

_____________________

Welcome to Election Day, 2020—historic for us in this country because of all the associated kerfuffle. But Joyce Odam has come through for us, with  Seed of the Week “Dry Leaves Underfoot” and photos to match. Thank you, Joyce, for a bit of loveliness to distract us from all that darned kerfuffle!

To read what artist/poet Andrei Baciu has to say about art and poetry, see www.artlimited.net/andreibaciu/biography/.

Our new Seed of the Week is Camouflage. Hundreds of ways to hide yourself: at parties, meetings, in relationships…  Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

—Public Domain Photo 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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