Earth Day poem #2
Before the old streetsweeper comes
I take a lingering look
at the leaves now burnt brown
crusty and curled
on their new concrete bed
down their original home
still standing up to the clearing sky.
I see what they were
before the stampeding wind
tore them off tree branches
summer’s vibrant crown
blanketing the parched ground.
I hear too echoes of their rustles
blending with bird tweets
a serenade for sweet dreams.
Sad, but I know
the streetsweeper will gather them
put them in sacks and with shaken soil
grow new roots and trees.
And so it is not the end
even as the broomstick passes hands
as likewise I will be
one among stacks of fallen leaves
with somewhere else to go
for another season
where no other follows.