Folks, this was entirely Kathryn's idea . She suggested we do a combined article on AUTUMN, sharing thoughts and impressions from our different perspectives.
Here it is.
She wrote the poem while I wrote the prose poem...she definitely had me inspired with her encouraging words.
The Saga of the Soft, Green Leaf
I hold this leaf, this soft green leaf, touch it to my cheek,
and I hear the Celtic flute's wail, my people's stormy steerage,
who walked the Rockies, eating wildflowers, privations of ice and death ,
which echoes the saga of the soft, green leaf;
I hold this leaf, this soft, green leaf, not yet bitten by loss of chlorophyll that brings Autumn's bright beauty, vile harbinger of death to come,
where brilliance fades to browned crimson, crumpled carcasses that blow like tumbleweeds, echoing privations of ancestors past;
I hold this leaf, this soft, green leaf, touch it to my cheek,
but I know its future holds bitter ice and death;
I yearn to know this soft green leaf will survive the crystalline ice that wraps its deathly arms around the stem, laughing, while it chokes the bud,
I yearn to see a new green bud on this very stem, its presence the ancestral smiles of sepia photos that return life in new birth, squealing, new pink birth, triumph, joy over death.
Autumn has stepped in, tip toeing on golden star steps.
Golden letters and half-hearted sad endings to spring's ruse....no pinks or purples now, nor the iridiscent glow of silver on winter-left lives. Here come the breaths of a dragon, perhaps. Or the sighs of a poet...or a lover's pain. Warm words flavored with hand knitted sweaters will slip September into November. Soon, it will be winter.
In Kashmir, barely-able-to-breathe-without-sending-gold-tripping-down-Chinars will soon find poets, painters, tourists, the locals and the exiled dreaming of warm fires in the home and the scent of crushed leaves. There will be fires in the sky and on the ground...letters from the Gods, soft songs caught in the trees singing, 'come again.'
Windows will soon find children with their noses pressed to the glass, writing their names and smiley faces on the condenation.
In Srinagar, boats gliding out will meet misty chills that have left streaking silver trails on the lakes. Ladies the age my grandmother was when I was ten will tie sliced turnips, tomatoes, apples and herbs into garlands to dry in sunny windows. Preparations for the winter when gray skies and moody days will walk in the door.
New Delhi will soon become a city of yellowing leaves drifting on an October air .Festivals, parties,marriages will come tripping through the letter box. Pickles and Diwali will string smiles on this busy road to winter. Lights and flavors of autumn....flights and savours of autumn....! Diyas will dance soon enough, as trunks open to reveal last year's love-affair with words, pressed and forgotten--in old journals and dry leaves.
Here in Bombay, the sea surges gray and mysterious, leaping into thought cameras. Trees don't change color here....if they do, it's rare. Only the rains come and go...
Drops the size an eye cannot measure, tiny beads and huge, thick pearls come carried on the dancing wings of winds. Rooms with open doors and windows wait for a stray golden message to float in...it may it may not..! No blankets, no crunching leaves in lone walks . No warm pockets nor fingers fiddling with nuts..none of this.
Only the rain...that walks tall, miles tall over the sea. Falling in silvery ropes that tie up flighty thoughts into sounds and words. Sounds that catch the non-autumn in songs and sighs and smiles. Sounds of a drunken rain......an autumn rain.