2016 11 30
The gold oval leaf, tinted red, lying prone
on gray sidewalk under roiling storm clouds,
contains the glow of sunlight in its death.
She picks up each leaf and, with feather quill
dipped in lemon juice, she writes secret name
of each dreamless person who died that hour.
The pile of leaves that represent the dead
rises far higher than the tallest mountain,
deeds of their lives vanished in silent wind.
The memories and hopes that glowed so bright
in the tangled neural net of their brains
swirls around her head as dust in sunlight.
She can envision every dream they lost,
faces she threads in tapestry of souls
that hangs from gray wall of her doorless tower.
I find another leaf on the sidewalk
imprinted with blush of her hidden face,
then sing her name as wind swirls it away.