Jennifer Angelina Petro
Standing by the gold-flecked stream
watching leaves plucked from the trees
in droves by the wind, one cannot help,
if one is so inclined as to reflect on these things,
but notice how much like death
autumn must be.
Perhaps, when the time is ripe,
and the soul is heavy with longing,
and the great wind comes,
it will pluck my soul and spirit
right from the branches of my body
and cast them into the gold-dappled stream
flowing towards the sea.
It’s strange, isn’t it, that during autumn
the air is crisp, fresh, clarifying;
and the light slants in such a way
as to ignite the trees with joy even
as the trees relinquish themselves
to the letting go.
Harvest me autumn,
for the chlorophyl of hope has drained
from my face and limbs,
and seeped into the ground
to nourish the roots and bones
of those who already gave their all,
collect me in your harvest-hands
and turn my despair into gold.