Leaf, Leaf, Leave (Meghan)

Leaf, Leaf, Leave

One time I saw a leaf

in ombre green to red,

severed too soon from the

still-living—still staining, still clinging

in late September to summer’s

strong branches, bracing for the fall.

One time I saw a leaf

of smooth white paper

abandoned on the concrete drive

(beneath a tree, reddening for Fall),

flying off sheet by sheet

like doves from a branch’s sacrifice

in full, arresting flight.

One time I saw you leaf

through piles of sorted mail,

envelopes recording bills

already paid.  You were searching

for love letters you might have dreamed

but wanted to be real:

a leaf from autumn pressed

between pages never read.

One time I saw you leave

but knew you would return.

I’d pressed leaves from the day

we made our promises, after all.

One time I saw you leave

but couldn’t watch you go.

You stood in the space between us

like a late September leaf

while I lay on the concrete,

a rotting arm, a paper bird,

wiser from the Fall.