Waiting for that last fall leaf–
like waiting for the other shoe
to drop. . .

In some ways, it provides relief
but grows the stresses,
as your life’s long ride progresses
to the new,
an untrod realm
where you feel odd–
not much like you–

as you adjust to gains and losses
and wobble, less sure at the helm,
where on your toes you must remain,
ready at any further tiny change
to jump–
at least, to hop. . .

Meanwhile, though, your wound-up brain
ponders long what will befall
if comes the rain–
the beads of sweat
get more profuse–
the leaf may loose–
the shoe’s at risk to sop. . .

You gaze upon the weather vane
with its twirling rooster mane
and wonder whether
you should take preventive measures–
find a bucket
and grow nerves of steel
to stand your old roof’s patter ruckus,
and fetch,
in case of leaks from all that rain,
a fat, absorbent, mop. . .

If your winter plan is not yet made,
it’s no time to make lemonade,
lest you be caught in lack of aught
that for wind, cold and storm
you’re apt to need,
to the degree that you’d beg urgent aid
from the nearest ambulance or cop.

Such a feeling of suspension,
and a layering of tension,
which thickens with each slowly ticking second
gone by
in seat-edge-perched anticipation,
while wisps of time get stretched so long
and tiny cells of muscles squinch so strong
that they wholly do defy
each try of human comprehension–

And you simply can’t decide
whether you want still the thrill
and magic of this ride,
of having only one shoe down
or all the fall leaves heaped
but one,
which, to its branch keeps hanging on–

or whether you’d prefer
the ones still up
would just descend,
and this chapter
now would end,
and your tension at this juncture
finally (at least for now)
would ease,
and, for a little breather,
then, would stop.

This entry was posted in Autumn, Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry, Seasons, Winter and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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