but one time I took a leaf that followed
me home from 5th grade
and I kept it in a pie dish
that was never meant for pie but apple on top it displayed
orphaned paper of new
fall, and old cold.
Dropping degrees and keep it high,
don’t let it touch the ground
dusted with cherry pits that never
quite break down with the
coffee grounds, diligently
planted where only
one day says
we should trim, cut
back to summers as a child—
Calvin and Hobbes and clover soup
I made with lemonade
And stared up through leaf skins
And wished this moment would never
Senesce, never fall
but abscission is unavoidable in New
England, and pie tins aren’t
to carry us
(frozen) interrupted, cool freeze lungs
one after one after one
splashing, echoing, fading away into
growls of diesel.
A shovel flies past—but the earth is
or sleeping. A heartbeat falters
without a balm to treat it. One after
one goes past, doesn’t look, doesn’t grow.
No green no blood no gel in
February streets soaked in salt.
One after one after
Three-four-five sentinels waiting,
buried, enclosed, silenced, naked in the
snow. Bound up in living coffins
they wait, sympathizing with each tremor as it
passes. One after one
the sun fades behind winter skies.
They continue, dead dying the dead
rock dying dying world. One after
Again, in the closed-off field,
sap waits for spring.