© Steve King 2011
All rights reserved
Leaves are fallen in the garden,
gone from lean black branches.
Bright hours are gone, too;
lost amid the equinoctial shade.
You could not count the leaves,
but would recapture hours,
recall them all;
silent as you watch the leaves
run before an autumn wind.
You let the moments slip,
used them to savor yearnings,
distant hopes,
idle revery.
Yet still the pull of yearnings,
yet still, desires unmet;
no moments in your bag
to hold them now.
Now memory is lean,
would feast upon new days
were they at hand;
would gorge upon
the promise of new dreams,
yes, even on the promise,
were there moments for a dream,
were there moments for a promising.
Without leaves on high
there is silence in the wood,
save for the one song:
when winds sweep low,
falling from the mountain,
gathering its chill.
Alone in the garden,
heir to the song,
to vistas of lean black branches—
this song will not scribe a memory,
nor hold a moment rapt for you,
more than may the lean black branches
recall scattered leaves.
There's a feel of real desolation, of time not just passing, but avalanche-ing away ahead of one, or perhaps on top of one. The image of the bag is palpable, even empty or near empty. The last two stanzas clinch the poem with their somber note and defining details--enjoyed this older work of yours very much, Steve.
ReplyDeleteLove this
ReplyDeleteNice balanced diction and good sonics in the reading
ReplyDeletei hear the keening in her song...and have heard it before as well...the mourning of the fallen and shattered leaves makes for a great metaphor as well....sombre is a great word for this...
ReplyDeleteSteve, yes, Excursions and Diversions is exactly what I would call this...! For a moment, and just for a moment, my cares dissolved away as I floated down into a chilly, forest floor, whispering with the leaves, admiring the stark black branches, finding a melody in life that soothes the soul. It doesn't need a reason. Or a happy ending, or a witty plot, or any kind of thought. Sometimes we just need to immerse ourselves in care-free and absolute calm, shrouded by mesmerizing beauty. The architecture of your poem did that for me incredibly well. Thank you......
ReplyDelete
ReplyDelete"Without leaves on high
there is silence in the wood,
save for the one song:
when winds sweep low,
falling from the mountain,
gathering its chill."
The loss, the yearning, in this is almost palpable, as seasons fold and shadows turn to darkness. (Yet hope rests somewhere in the knowledge that all comes full circle, if not back to where we were perhaps to a place where we can move forward once again.)
I love your writing Steve, I not only read, but "feel" your poetry, and can disappear in the beauty of your words. Well penned as always, my friend.
This spoke to me of the limitations of art. Very nicely done.
ReplyDeleteA great write..."Without leaves on high
ReplyDeletethere is silence in the wood,
save for the one song:
when winds sweep low,
falling from the mountain,
gathering its chill."
simply beautiful!
There is a repeated desolate beauty here...in the black branches.."desires unmet, yearnings" Beautiful, Steve.
ReplyDeletelovely... not hopelessness, but acceptance, that is what i felt in these words, somber but not desolate.
ReplyDeletethere is beauty in all of nature's voices, and much beauty in this poem.
I get the sense of an older person whose memory is fading, along with their other abilities, although their desire for life is not. Could just be the way I'm reading it though.
ReplyDeleteTHanks for sharing/
Love your words...the falling of leaves and clinging to the memory resonated with me ~ The last one is specially beautiful ~
ReplyDeleteYou let the moments slip,
ReplyDeleteused them to savor yearnings,
distant hopes,
idle revery.
I love that!
Lovely sombre words. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteAnna :o]
I love this:
ReplyDeleteWithout leaves on high
there is silence in the wood,
save for the one song:
when winds sweep low,
falling from the mountain,
gathering its chill.
The imagery all through this is somehow sad and yet, accepting of the inevitable.
Truly a brilliant piece.
Steve, this is out of the poetry ball park with awesome!!
ReplyDeleteGlad I was standing outside the stadium to catch this for my very own.
Once there were moments
in your bag that held everything.
Then they ran away like cats.
Idle revery is where it's AT.
xo
Steve, I was captured by the wistful, even mournful moments of this poem, and yet it's so true. We live in the moment; we have memories, but how many of them stick, and how many scatter like the leaves?
ReplyDeleteWonderful imagery here. I could almost smell that crisp autumn air. Loved it, and thanks again for the link. Peace, Amy
This is such a sad, but beautiful, poem, Steve. I've just been up in the country, in the mountains, where those black branches are in full sway - fallen leaves all about--and there is this sadness in the season of wanting to literally re-call earlier moments. A very lovely poem. k.
ReplyDelete