Leaves

A sad, happy poem.

photo by S. Thomas Summers
photo by S. Thomas Summers
Leaves

for my daughter

The one’s you found
fallen in our yard,
under the thick maple,
the birch, its skin

as white as light,
the ones you stored
in brown paper bags,
I placed them between

the pages of that blue
Webster’s dictionary
on the garage shelf,
set a coffee can

heavy with nails
on the cover
to press the leaves
into brittle pieces

of parchment.
On days like this,
when the house
thunders with quiet,

I read their histories,
remember the bee sting
you suffered sniffing
a marigold, your swollen nose,

that yellow tricycle you rode
between the mailbox
and garage doors,
each trip a flight to Oz,

your legs pumping, pumping,
you calling from the backyard,
Hey, Dad – look what I found.

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2 thoughts on “Leaves

  1. On days like this,
    when the house
    thunders with quiet,

    Got me all teary here now. Just hung up from a call from my daughter Stef in Maryland… Yes. Sitting here thinking. Thunders with quiet… That describes it so perfectly.

    Like

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