Dead leaves fall from a living tree,
captured by a breeze, to gather at my feet
tiny mounds
of earth browns
and ill-colored greens
piled on one another / rustling / serpentine screams

tiny graveyards
un-esteemed;
reminding me of last evening's
public television show (almost
appalling)

a special / they called it
on letters from the holocaust,

a reading / from surviving
members now grey and slowing

as they speak (aging)
in sepia slideshows during their
somber, teary-eyed recollecting;
lifting ghosts and rocks

heavy, from the moss
of their memory
silver photos of nannas, sisters,
brothers and fathers lost
fading details of the war

which time has (and they gladly)
frost, depressing
me with my big screen magnavox,

i remote control a pause...

&

still dead leaves of cemetary browns
and soldier greens,
lifeless and lifted by the wind
without empathy / or guilt of sins

an airy power, a commanding force / unseen
gathering / stems or limbs
of these casualties / of autumn
none following the flight

of concord cold fronts

clustering together / piled / inartistically
at my sandals, toes wriggling
crunching underneath my feet

weathered

death seems simple - like a mindless breeze,
natural and indifferent dust devils

it is the way of things
shifting graveyards of leaves
as if a memorial of use-to-be's
from a roar of sightless tragedies
memorium of wars
tombs of bodies / images of defeat

not so simple or beloved

the nature of such things
in these leaves i see
of thee i sing....