Leaves - Poem by Morgan Michaels
High on a shelf in a box I found
(with others) , a book of old Hemingway tales.
Opening to one, I read the first line
'The hills across the Ebro were long and white.'
The tales in the book were old and dried
The leaves of the tales were dried and browned
In reading they turned to dirty confetti
and fell in bits that lost themselves in the rug.
I thought (fool thought) how Papa himself
might like the idea of the vanishing tale-
might like the way the reading of one
Turneded a tale into bite-sized crumbs,
as if his tales, like the leaves of the trees
had a season to live, then disappeared,
forever, gone, all vanity,
and made for the rug, the 'dirty confetti snow.'
But the tale was tense and tersely told,
So you plowed through on to the very close
Powerless to quit, not minding it
if soon the snow should reach your knees.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You