today I caught a leaf
while walking in the park
with your mother and you,
rain falling, weeks after your father
died in Cornwall.

walking through the slight drizzle,
leaves clinging to the front of my shoes,
and yours, and your mother's,
made us look like
foot-soldiers for autumn.

gusts of wind blowing up from the
sheer drops to the Don River
shook more leaves
from the arms of mothertree
which first argued them into life.

the great Niobes of maples
and sumachs and oaks, now weakened,
cling to themselves and shiver.
I resolve to maintain
the memory of their grief.

a breeze shakes loose
a few more leaves -
my hand snakes out
like a wagonmaster's whip
and catches one, to cradle

I put it in the side pocket
of my car door, little knowing
one windy day the following week
it would be gone
as intended


bonaventure Saptel