The last leaves are golden,
most have already flown.
Branches hang bare
beneath ashen skies.
Branches hang bare
beneath ashen skies.
Not so different from when you climbed,
hand over slow hand, waging a war
inside your young mind. One leaf
breaks free, hangs on a moment,
before leaping into the maelstrom.
I imagine a short fall,
sharp jerk and silence;
but it's only a leaf and spirals away,
no note to mark its passing.
- Ryan Stone
first published in Poppy Road Review, June 2016
- Ryan Stone
first published in Poppy Road Review, June 2016
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