Autumned

He slowly lowered himself into a squatting position on the edge of the bank
He paused for a moment, looking past himself into the brisk, clear water
He lowered his hand, felt the cool meet his fingertips, and then withdrew
He watched the crisp, brown leaf that he had placed upon the surface of the creek glide along
He contemplated it
Its motion was inconsistent, responding to the varying and invisible currents
Are they biased?
He did not wait for it to leave his view; he turned away
He did not lend himself to such clichéd ceremony
Or perhaps the thought was too much
With his sigh, the wind rushed through the autumned trees
He took several paces away from the bank and paused once more, looking downward
A large, golden oak leaf drifted down and out from the fiery canopy
He raised his head, and felt it skim across his wild, wind-blown hair
His eyes followed its path as it swept just past the edge of the bank and landed on surface of the swift, cool, creek
He eyes traced its route as it moved inconsistently, responding to the varying and invisible currents
They are not biased
He did not wait for it to leave his view; he turned away
He did not lend himself to such superficial ritual
He knew he could not mislead himself
He listened to the forest's symphony
The wind; a soloist
a solo movement; The Trees
a solo; the movement
of the trees
A concerto of all things constantly inconsistent
He stood motionless
His eyes were dry
He threw his arms as if they were wings
And he ran
He ran into the forest, and the colors flew by him in time with the music in his mind
He left behind the clear, cool, brisk, swiftly moving water
The creek
The two leaves, one on top of the other
Pinned firmly
Their edges fluttering
Against a jagged, black rock.




Poetry by Morgan Cellohead
Read 736 times
Written on 2009-09-30 at 22:21

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