i suppose there are people in this world
who live in places in this world
where leaves don't fall.
who don't realize the exquisite beauty
of this transformative death,
the marvelous crinkling underfoot
of dry, colour-filled leaves.
they never see the sidewalks
painted with leaf-shaped imprints
after the rains fall.
there are those who have never held a rake,
who never must endure the horrid
gas-filled stench and noise
of the 'leaf-blower' machines,
who never appreciate the solace
and the rhythm and the final triumph
of the piles of leaves gathered
i suppose there are people
who never live through winter
with the starkness of leafless trees,
who never thank the earth and heavens for the
only and ever green of the spruce and pine and fir.
neither do they witness the energy of spring
infusing life into tiny buds again,
miraculously, and without failing,
and rejoice that we've survived
another winter.
