late fall poem

one way to understand the leaves

Through the front window, 
the double-trunked pine blocks 
a jean blue sky.
The pine guards his many small needles
like a shepherd returning home with all of his sheep. 

In the back yard, the last red leaves 
grip, white knuckled, to their lifestraws. 

If you step out on their dead compatriots, 
they can only shake a weak fist from above you. 
The piles of dead are so young, so undone,
while their tall shepherds will not retrieve them. 

Why do the fall leaves grow beautiful? 
Do they see their death angel winging in from the north? 
Do they spread like peacocks to please their tall fathers?
Do they dream of a resurrection? 

Beauty is their finish line; 
they fall at the end of their race. 
But, come spring, they will resurrect
in a strange way, in a new body, 
into the arms of their shepherd.

p.s. The below picture was not taken at the site of the poem, it’s just a fall picture that brings back happy memories of Oregon fall :)