Pages Later

Sometimes when the leaves have fallen

quietly upon a restless ground,

they are taken hostage by the frisky breeze

and broken into crumbles of faded hue.

At other times they have yet to fall,

and sway by the stem in precarious fashion;

torn in two and shredded by the fangs

of hope’s inappropriate afterthoughts.

From where does the heat emerge

upon such a cold day?

Icy breath solidifies each soft ripple of dismay,

but the spring like ink bursts forth

in liquid fright, fleeing a subsurface

of silent lifeless soil.

Still, there are times when

an anxious hand grabs at leaves

that bear the scrawled print

of words that were never born;

thoughts that were never revisited,

but hover drifting with obvious disdain.

When the leaves are gone,

crushed, incinerated and erased,

why do their memories cast shadows

upon the ground despite their absence?

When do words unspoken cease to resound?

Jennifer Burnside