Last fall I watched as the petals
of the Grover rose waved their
last goodbye. Who can name
the strange music that waits where
the flowers keep their deep sleeping?
My father believed he could hear
the brown leaves laughing at my
concern about such things. He claimed
I spent so much time contemplating
the mystery of apples and pears,
I had forgotten how to eat them.
It was his contention that I attributed
the stuff that makes us human to things
better left alone. When I pointed out
I had learned the skill from him,
he confessed that certain pine and cedar
trees recited his name on windy days,
that whole patches of blackberry
and vine maple knew such delicious
secrets, he had skipped school as a kid
just to listen to them sing on days
the soft rains moved down from the hills.
He insisted that certain trees in the forest
were the homes of angels, that even ferns
and trilliums knew how to praise them.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
