Falling Leaves

All summer long, the trees are swathed with intense mantles of green that serve as much to beautify as to obscure the amazing landscapes that pepper the Northwest. Now, the leaves are turning and falling, and, for once, I can see the Willamette River and distant Mt. Hood from the comfort of my living room.


Falling Leaves

The summer leaves obstruct our view,
the river and the range;
they hold an autocratic coup
against a steady change
and charge the overwhelming light
with shade and shadow-sifted sight

so rife with viridescent green.
This is a gentle cage,
and we observe, ourselves unseen,
a histrionic stage
of runners reaching for the stars,
a web of pliant prison bars

that we will never overcome,
as often as we try;
their branches make a burly sum
and dare us to defy
the fixedness of supple shoots
that take their spirit from the roots.

But no offensive is compelled;
inertia is our sword,
and, as our peace is surely held,
that lush and leafy hoard
shall fall before the rising frost,
a mantle shed for meager cost.