As dusk descends, confused trees whisper,
“How did it become later than ever?”
They pause and ache for lingering leaves,
Heroic January lives that fell too soon,
Brilliant ones yet to fade and fall,
On unforgiving February concrete,
Certain militant Marches,
Angry Aprils, unimaginable Mays,
To come and go without reason.
They stand and wonder when and if,
More sensible seasons, brighter days,
Truer hearts, freer minds,
Will return and reign supreme.
Hello Yellow, how good of you
to make an appearance before
Santa and his reindeer land.
I’ve missed you and your
colorful red and orange cousins,
your crunchy-yet-sunny
disposition, your earthly scent
as you hang, glide and tumble
to be collected by the magical
metallic click and swoosh of
yesterday’s backyard garden
rake. Didn’t we once gather
with your friends in a pile or
several for one last heavenly
autumnal celebration before
carols and flurries cascaded and
winter’s drifts and desolation
froze us in our tracks?
Now I remember us together,
surviving in a simpler, more
defined, orderly civilization.
You don’t need to worry.
As long as I am here, you
and your seasonal friends
will remain alive, constant,
distinguishable, and everlasting
… at least in my imagination.
She whispered November, though each step spoke September. No grey to brighten. No chill to thaw. Only cerulean skies. Proud pomegranates. Lonely lizards. Fading roses. Towering eucalyptus trees. Swaying suspension bridges.
In her Arizona embrace, we stood by banks of dusty monsoon memories. We crossed dry creek beds flowing with tears. We shielded our eyes from the sun. We moved ahead on our path. We listened to the language of lingering leaves.
Mark Johnson Stories 