The Voyage of the Leaves
The leaves, first silent,
Jump but a foot or two,
Scurrying past the dormant grass,
Across the morning dew.
The leaves, brown, wrinkled, weightless,
Skip over naked stones,
Raising the alarm,
Casting out the hollow tones.
The wind, lazy, curious, autumn wind,
Incites the leaves to dance,
Disturbs their calm surrender,
Imbues the scene’s romance.
The horizon, vacant, clear, beyond us,
Hurls its crimson claws,
Spits its lavender climax,
Begs the eye to pause.
The tyrant, attempts to still the ashes,
Attempts to claim the breeze,
Performs his fatal cha-cha,
Demands we bend the knee.
The vulgar, slack-jawed, voyeur,
Hears her tragic moan,
Feels the wind come whispering,
Despite his cursed throne,
The leaves, encompassing the moment,
Blow past the wilted heir,
Blow past the fetid waters,
Under the watchman’s glare.
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Comments about this poem (The Voyage of the Leaves by Tristan Nagler )
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