Falling Leaves

The roads are slippery with fallen leaves
the storm drains overflowing
Autumn throwing her best at us
as tarmac slides us by.

There is an air of inevitability
the last survivors dance,
once again we find ourselves
pitted against elements
and dodging random showers.

The church is busy, you hold my hand
we find ourselves a distant pew,
far, far away from the view
of polished pine or mahogany
from this distance I cannot distinguish.

When we escape, incense still
filtering the air, the smell
of damp coats and hair,
freshly turned sod,
all is ashes, my throat hurts.

We avoid the psychophantic chat
and find ourselves sipping
hot espresso and picking at
kernels of bloated corn.
We choose the seats under
the canopy, which reminds me of stars
and a last dinner somewhere.

Your car is all leather, smooth to touch
I slide into place and watch a screen
rise to choose a track
but all I find is anane prattle
and the rattle of your engine
drowns the sighs along
with the whispers from
falling leaves,

I am sliding inevitably toward conclusion
and each drop of rain
is a heart sigh of longing,
for the us of us
and the madcap mayhem
now steeped with the sadness
of passing years.

We the survivors hug the tarmac
and swoosh through the puddles
that marked our lives,
leaves in swirls entering the
storm drains, churning up the years
making the waters muddy and yet muddier.

Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 301 times
Written on 2017-10-23 at 18:03

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email
dott Print text

josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
What a lovingly sad poem this is. The funereal service and loss is so well enhanced by the dreary drive through fall of leaves and rain. This is a masterwork, Elle.

Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Beautifully done, Elle.

Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
The feel and the images of autumn made personal by your pen. Love your poems. Every details intended to make the reader feel. And I do, although I haven't seen an autumn in 15 years, the words make me remember and feel.

it has been so long, like to see you back

one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
It seems appropriate that a poem of autumn and falling leaves, wet, slick, and drain-bound, should also be a poem of longing.

This is a sensory capturing of a mood—personal bits that come back. Interesting that you say "survivors."

It makes me feel old, and that much is lost.