An Affinity with the Life-Force of Dead leaves

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

A new poem today for autumn, and falling leaves everywhere (not confined to autumn) in a very blustery wind.

We all feel low sometimes. Only yesterday, I found myself relating to a dead leaf in the street, heading for a drain; a depressing experience until I reminded myself that it was not the end of the last leaf in the whole world; others would follow in an endless cycle of life and death where dying is not so much the beginning of the end but a way of leaving space for new beginnings.

An old man who lived on the street where I was born and lived until I was 14 years-old told me once that I should never fear death but think of it as a life-force. He was not a religious person so I thought his 80-something years must have taken their toll or perhaps it was just wishful thinking. (He died only weeks later.) It has taken me more than half a century to understand what he meant.

AN AFFINITY WITH THE LIFE-FORCE OF DEAD LEAVES

I drifted lonely as a leaf

left to fare as it will on a wintry breeze,

perhaps (who knows?) missing

its parent tree, the company of siblings,

playing host to feathered friends

as long as their seasons last, world

a happier place if only a kinder nature’s

wistful take on it

Who can ever say (for sure)

a leaf cannot think, feel, experience

the ebb and flow of life

in ways only Earth Mother knows

who gives, takes away,

and gives back again when the time

comes to renew her vows to humankind

at each spring blessing?

I watched the leaf sucked

into a drain, lost forever among sewage

beyond salvaging (who knows?)

as I feel myself sucked into a vortex

scaremongers call Old Age

where the hope is we’ll be saved  

as lovingly pressed collectables between

pages of living memory

Did it feel rejected, the leaf,

and was it glad to drown in a dark sewer

where all the world’s garbage

flows into its seas, as likely to kill off 

countless life forms as the shrewd

property developer felling trees

or an old poet infecting imagination

with its worst fears?

Back home, a glossy magazine,

repudiating my distress as bold as brass

with the latest fashions pics,

celeb gossip, ideas to impress the boss,

tips on keeping old age at bay;

in the garden, leaves faring better  

than a gutter (compost) giving glossy

a good run for its money

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012