ManicDDaily

I am in Buenos Aires, a beautiful and extremely leafy city. I may be particularly conscious of the leaves because it is Fall here, a time in which one is always very conscious of leaves. Fall, and Buenos Aires, also have a wistful quality, which, as a kind of wistful, Eeyorish, person, I am quick to glom onto. Here’s the draft poem of the morning:

My world without you – Leaves

My world without you
is like a tree fallen in a forest;
without you there to hear it,
like a tree that may have fallen
in a forest somewhere, without you
next to me, a tree possibly falling somewhere,
out of my range too; nothing,
in short, feels real
without the warmth of your hand
at my back.
So when we talk of leaving, let it be of leaves (mine)
pressed up to leaves (yours); let it
be of leaves only, grown, blown, each to each,
their veins nearly in line, their
outlines coupling, leaves of a tree
not fallen, swaying gently, mightily.

All rights reserved, as always. Suggestions welcomed.