Oak Leaves
Millions of brown oak leaves blanket these grounds.
I'd not even be able to count, most likely,
Those nestling in the grass surrounding your plot,
This still-warm, late-October afternoon.
Easily, there must be thousands,
Each a piece of the season,
A symbol of the cyclical nature of existence and decay,
The presence, absence, and renascence
Of everything from human beings to trees —
All creatures and things imbued with corporeality.
Sitting not twenty feet from your ivy-covered sleep,
I say, aloud, "Hello, Dad. I love and miss you.
How can almost six years have whisked by?"
And I listen for your answer, from oblivion's distance.
But all I hear are oak leaves whispering as they fall.
10/19/08
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