This Happened Today

When I Am Among the Trees

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness,
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."

(Mary Oliver)

My eyes are quick for Spring, for the first glimmer of green under a mess of snow or concealed by the devastation of last season's once-leaves, and as April quickens I feel my eyes hunting for and preying on the newness of the world. The grass has made a valiant effort, slowly shaking aside its matted coat of brown and yellow, cautiously slipping into something more comfortable, brighter, flirtatious even. But I am impatient and the grass has not been enough. While Duncan and I have walked my gaze has prowled the uppermost branches, the highest beacons of the trees for the first glimmer of green and today, as Ken walked with Duncan at his side, I strolled slowly behind, examining each limb and finger, combing every inch of the maples and willows, the ash and cottonwoods, like I comb Duncan for ticks after a romp up my mother's mountain, my eyes hungry for a bud broken and shattered by the first swelling of an unfurling leaf.

And then, after leaving the park and turning back toward home, after stopping to check the mail and dispose of the relentless flow of coupons and junk, I saw it, a single tree, the sky bluer than blue above it, calmly but certainly bursting with buds. So I stopped and marveled as I do every year at this time, gazing as though I have never seen such a thing, as though winter had been thirty years long and green was something not witnessed since childhood. And I didn't feel foolish because this should be the only way to look at the newness of spring, of the coming of the leaves, of the blessed change of season. This should be law and the penalty should be severe for anyone who does not pause and give thanks.

Forty-two times I have lost my virginity to spring and if The Universe is willing, I will lose it forty-two times more. 

This happened today. 

The Teachings of Spring

No one taught the sun to rise as bright and clear as it did this morning, in a sky not quite sweet-smelling, but rich and deep, as though the earth had been tilled and made ready for hands to be thrust deeply into it. No one taught the last patch of snow to hold on as long as it has, receding bit by bit each afternoon, the ice revealing the pebbles and once-leaves and children's toys like secrets it has clutched tightly since November when the snow decided to stay. Under today's warm, cloudless sky, it finally relented and retreated, the remaining bits, clutching the grass like discarded chunks of paper, finally seeping into the earth as silently and gracefully as last night's shadows.

No one taught the nimble ends of the branches to redden and swell and then burst suddenly but quietly into tufts of delicious, vibrant green, the likes of which only appear in the newness of the season, soft and moist and curled up on themselves like the silky wings of newly-hatched butterflies. Theirs is the color of winter dreams, forgotten but hoped for more than remembered, like a word sticking unspoken and stubborn to the end of your tongue, refusing to be uttered.

No one taught the reedy willows to puff and pop open and dazzle the world with the sparkle of their long winter slumber. They are delicate and tiny, smaller than my smallest fingernail, but catch the sun like shattered glass and reflect it back, dazzling the little brown birds hoping along the fence line, dancing back and forth and waiting for them to enbiggen and weigh down the erupting tendrils swaying above the enlivening green of the new grass.

No one taught the myriad little birds their songs or the magnificent sound the make as they burst all at once from the cover of a low shrub after you pass, the churning of their wings rising up in sync, a staccato whir that fades as they fan out over and around the path.

No one taught me to turn my face into the sunshine on days like this, to close my eyes and savor the flavor of the morning, as unique and distinct as the prints on my fingers. And no one taught my dog to dance at the joy of uncovering a thick, perfectly-weighted stick, balancing it between his teeth as he prances, head high and proud at his discovery.

No needs teach these things. They are a given, just a few of the miracles of Spring which are waiting to astound if we only open our eyes and open ourselves to their discovery.

Perpetual Astonishment

Every spring is the only spring - a perpetual astonishment. (Ellis Peters)

Ever so slowly, nearly imperceptibly, Spring is finding its way into our corner of the world. It is premature to say, I know, especially since March and April are typically the snowiest months in Denver, but I have walked these fields and the darkened paths for so long that my eyes are hungry for change.

It was another lovely day with temperatures hovering around 70˚, a warm breeze sifting through the last of the once-leaves, chasing them across the parking lot and scattering them down the wide avenues. The finches were singing in the trees outside the patio where Jeffrey's once-feral cat hunts, and a few golfers appeared on the yellow greens of the golf course. The park was blessedly empty but full of life, with flocks of heavy, black crows croaking from the naked tree limbs while squirrels ran erratic circles around their trunks.

Dunc jogged far ahead, his nose pulling him from one boggy patch of earth to the next, his tail propelling him forward as he went. I found him sitting in the center of the walk at the edge of the baseball diamonds, his back to me, his face turned rapturously into the sun. He barely noticed my arrival and it wasn't until I stepped beside him and rested my hand on his narrow shoulder that he turned, his tongue hanging out, a grin spread wide across his face. We stood a long moment together, not moving, looking up into the blue, the warmth of the sun kissing our faces, blessing and encouraging us for these last few difficult weeks of winter.

He led me to the baseball fields, which have been been cleaned and painted and then back out onto the wide soccer fields, where the posts have already been erected and the grounds marked for the hoards which will no doubt arrive this weekend. He galloped and rolled in the dry grass, the barren trees and stark color a backdrop to his glorious red. It would have been easy to feel discouraged by the weight of these too-short days and the early nights still creeping upon us, to sigh discontentedly at the dry yellow, if Duncan hadn't searched out and found a small, hardly visible patch of greening grass to roll in.

The world is changing and we are eager to change with it. There is hope and light and green to be found under the vast expanse of blue.

The Making of a Once-Leaf

I am not sure where the clouds came from or when the weather changed. My drive home was blessedly shorter than usual, the sun bright over the mountains, the afternoon heat holding steady but somehow lovely blowing through my open windows. It was a leisurely drive and I was looking forward to getting home to Roo, to walk down The Wrangle to the small enclosed dog park at the end of the property. School has started and the Soccer Hoards have invaded our park again, which means no more chasing the ball until after the sun has set, quiet has reclaimed the land and they have retreated back into their caves. The Wrangle, though, is a quiet spot, small but shady, cool with long grass and well protected from the evening heat. We do not go there often, especially in the summer, when we have the wide open fields of the park to run across, so it's sometimes a treat to sit on the lone bench and watch Duncan be a dog without my interference.

On our way down the sloped hillside of The Wrangle, under the twisted pine which bends over the path, forming a sort of arched doorway, a sweet-smelling wind picked up, shaking the leaves of the Elms and Ash above us, obscuring the sky. The temperature dropped quickly and as the clouds moved in, the hillside turned dark, the kind of light that changes the world from color to black and white. The trees and shrubs and grass lost their green, became silhouettes of themselves against the grey above and behind them.

 

We stood a moment feeling as Dorothy must have after departing the dazzle of Oz and finding herself back in the black and white sepia of Kansas, all color gone, with only the safety of home and family to comfort her. And then a curious thing happened. A single shaft of brilliant gold penetrated the glade at the exact moment a lone and tumbling leaf toppled from a bough above. It had belonged to an elm, which are always the first to give in, changing and falling long before the others decide the time has come. As it spun earthward, its shape bending the air around it, fluttering and spinning as it went, the wind shifted direction and quieted, rose from below as if exhaled from the damp, dark earth, caught the leaf and suspended it mere feet from where I stood and watched. It hovered a moment then dropped suddenly, reeling in circles, then was lifted up again, bobbing before my eyes, a splendid nugget of color in the bland wash of evening. Duncan leapt up, pulling gently on his leash, his tail dancing behind him as he attempted to catch it. The breeze played with us, bouncing the leaf just above his nose and smiling face, pulling it up, up and out of his reach, then dropping it again. Duncan barked softly at it and chased it as the wind whipped it away, pulling it over the grassy slope, its fluttering gold fierce and defiant in the dimness around us, back under the bent pine and toward a narrow clearing where it hung a moment longer then dropped silently and without spectacle to the moist bed of grass below.

This is how Autumn begins. This is how Once-Leaves are born. It shone brightly a moment longer, and then as the sun was pulled behind the mountains, the gold of its life faded and silence claimed it. Roo sniffed at it once, pondered its sudden stillness and then moved on, pulling me after him.

Thirteen

It was a damp morning in the park, the remnants of last night's rain evident on the sidewalk and in the streets, in the drops still slowly slipping down the trunks of the trees or dripping from the branches, their impact making soft smacking sounds on the mat of yellowed grass and once-leaves below. The clouds were low but moving fast away toward the south and east, as though embarrassed at being caught in the act of doing something illicit. There was a chill in the air but not enough to keep Duncan and me from the park, or the Little League players from the first game of the season.

As we strolled around the baseball diamonds, we sized up the players, all of them twelve or thirteen, the most awkward of ages. Some of them were surprisingly tall and husky for their age, while others were still scrawny and bony and hardly looked ten. Their voices were as varying as their builds. While they warmed up, their uniforms still crisp and white, they shouted and called to one another, some in deep baritones, some in gravelly awkward cracks, and others in tones and timbres that had not even considered puberty.

Duncan was indifferent, of course, sniffing his way along the line of the fences, using his nose to turn over discarded potato-chip bags, until an occasional stray ball rolled toward us, and struck the other side of the fence, then he perked up and watched intently while the player retrieved it. I watched and listened, though, because the world of sports and thirteen year-olds are things I have never understood, even when I was that young.

A group of four small boys were warming up on one side of the field, throwing a ball back and forth between them, all of them eying their competition, who––looking much older and larger––were doing the same on the other side of the field.

"Do you see that big one," one of them asked conspiratorially. His teammates followed the jerk of his head in the direction of a tall, dark-haired boy across the field who was barking at his team in a deep, confident voice.

"Taylor Mitchum?" another asked.

The boy, gangly and small, nodded. "He looks old enough to shave," he marveled.

Another boy nodded. "Yeah, but check this out," he said, lowering his voice. "My cousin goes to school with him. Not only does he shave, but he has pubes."

There was a strange silence and I had to fight to keep from laughing.

Finally another boy spoke up. "Dude, I have pubes."

"Me, too," another confessed.

"Yeah, I do, too," the third admitted. They stared at their teammate in silence, sizing him up, the ball frozen in his mitt. "Dude! You don't have any pubes yet? What's wrong with you?!"

"Shut up!" he protested. "I got one!"

I still don't understand them.

A Quiet Place to Rest

The moon––hanging over my shoulder as it does at this time of the month, not quite fully round but close, bold and coy all at once––was the color of the streets lamps in the park, pale and transparent, sifting through the high wisps of clouds like a dirty light in a dark aquarium. Duncan was as oblivious to her presence as he was to the goose droppings that littered the sidewalk, and plodded along ahead of me, his ears raised into the dark of night around us, his nose low, skittering over the place where the cement and grass met.

It was a long day and as tired as I was, I knew that the short winter walks were beginning to take their toll on Roo. We stay away from the park on winter nights because I can't see to steer us around the green goose tootsie-rolls. Instead we've been spending our time down at The Glen or exploring the sidewalks that line the perimeter of the apartment complex. It's not ideal, but it's the only option I have in the cold and dark. Tonight, though, exhausted and grumpy, I figured the best thing for both of us was a long walk through the park, down around the northern edge of the lake, still frozen despite our warm January weather, and back up past the golf course toward home.

It is difficult sometimes, after a long commute and a stressful day, to put the needs of Duncan ahead of my own. My mind was screaming to stop for a burrito rather than cook the Tilapia waiting at home for me. I kept imagining a glass of wine, which I rarely drink, and a long hot bath, the steam rising up around my face in comfortably suffocating clouds. I wanted nothing more than to read a chapter or two in a book and climb into bed, but Duncan needed a long walk more than I needed an early night, and I knew that afterward I would feel better as well. I'd be ashamed to admit how often I resist, but every time I relent he reminds me that a good walk, a quiet one at a slow pace, is always the best medicine and that more often than not there's something waiting out there in the world for us, something The Universe has put in our path for exactly that reason, something waiting to be discovered.

And so we walked. The lake water was stiff and unmoving, the light from the shops that ring its shores trapped on its frozen surface, preserved as though burnt in amber. The air was nearly sweet and clear as the traffic began to die down and in places, where the clouds had cleared, the red and green lights of planes coming in from over the Rockies blinked against the darkness of all those miles of space between them and the ground.

Duncan pulled me around the baseball diamonds. My pace had begun to slow but he led me steadily along, occasionally looking over his shoulder at me, his eyebrows bunched up in that familiar way of his when he wants to take me somewhere and asks only that I trust him. So I followed, too tired even to whistle. When we'd rounded the diamonds and came back along the path past the picnic pavilions, he suddenly stopped, looked at me once more, and then guided me through a ring of scattered picnic benches to a place where someone had brought a single recliner, a La-Z Boy, golden under the park lamps, its surface smooth and clean, one arm slightly loose but in good condition. He led me to it, his tail wagging softly. My first instinct was to stay as far away from it possible, but I trust Dunc, and so we wiped the once-leaves from its mottled velour surface and sat for a bit. He climbed up on my lap, placed his head on my arm and looked up at me. We were warm there, watching the traffic thin out on Pierce, the moon bright and bold before us but still not quite fully round, the stars emerging from behind the clouds, all the world perfect as only a dog can show us it can be.

Lorien

Autumn has finally turned the world into a bland, unending expanse of brittle yellow, broken by cracks of faded browns and dusty shades of forgotten bone. The leaves have mostly fallen and scattered or been torn up––once-leaves, sliver shards, hardly even remnants of their former selves. The green has faded from the grass and the ground is slowly contracting and hardening and although winter has not yet appeared I can catch glimpses of her out of the corner of my eye, flirting behind an aspen, crouching amid the frost in the grass, running her fingers along the black iron of the gates.

There is one place, though––a silly place––that Duncan led me to this morning and again on our evening walk: the courtyard surrounding the hot tub. He pulled me to the gate and leaned in close to the bars, his tail swishing as a happy moan hummed in his throat. He turned and smiled at me, watching as I took in the color. One tree, hanging low over the tub, is still green but with the most vibrant and plump gold and red leaves fanning throughout the branches. The colors were shocking, and standing there, gazing at them, watching the dew roll slowly down the open face of a leaf, collecting drop after drop, growing as it moved, I could hardly believe how impossibly lush and new it looked. The cold vanished from the air and I felt years younger, exactly as I needed to feel today.

"[He] stood awhile still lost in wonder. It seemed to him that he had stepped through a high window that looked on a vanished world. A light was upon it for which his language had no name. All that he saw was shapely, but the shapes seemed at once clear cut, as if they had been first conceived and drawn at the uncovering of his eyes, and ancient as if they had endured for ever. He saw no colour but those he knew, gold and white and blue and green, but they were fresh and poignant, as if he had at that moment first perceived them and made for them names new and wonderful. In winter here no heart could mourn for summer or for spring. No blemish or sickness or deformity could be seen in anything that grew upon the earth. On the land of Lórien, there was no stain." (J.R.R. Tolkien)

One with the Wind

A wind has blown the rain away and blown the sky away and all the leaves away, and the trees stand. I think, I too, have known autumn too long.  (e. e. cummings)

I thought it would be a quick walk. I meant for that. I really did. I meant to take Duncan outside, perhaps to The Glen, just long enough to stretch his legs and feel the air on his face and against his open mouth, to let him taste the last of this day to save for some other time when he was sitting in the warm side of the window watching an afternoon pass without him. The night was dark with the sudden clouds that swept down on us from the north, raising the dust and prickly once-leaves and then bringing a thick, heavy snow which wanted to last but couldn't because the wind was simply too impatient for it and in far too great a hurry to rage unfettered across the open plains of Kansas or Nebraska. Surprisingly I, for once, agreed with the wind and wanted to rush and howl.

But once Duncan I were at the park, dark and blessedly free of any other souls, some force claimed us both, took command of our bodies and thoughts and scooped us up, driving us forward, against the screaming wind, pushing our cheeks back, shaping our mouths into maniacal grins and turning our eyes into squinting black points. The wind was terrible and fierce and as I stood in the center of the wide soccer field watching the cottonwoods and elms bend all around us, leaning at nearly impossible angles while Dunc darted madly back and forth among their trunks, a sense of celebration rose up in me, defiance and celebration and nothing in me wanted to return to the warmth of home or the rich, safe fragrance of the French onion soup simmering on the stove. I wanted to dance and run, and sometimes merely to walk but always to struggle. I wanted to listen as my calls for Duncan were pulled from my throat and ripped into shredded-silence across the field. The sting on my cheeks and in my eyes meant nothing, nor the cold sucking on the bones of my fingers. All that mattered was the roar and our passage through it.

Duncan was wild, galloping and rolling, snapping at the leaves that spun through the air between us, flung from their high branches, careening around our heads, winding around our ankles. The trees shifted and groaned as they bent toward us in stiff, straight-backed bows and I wondered how anything so tall and narrow could stand it and then I thought, how could they not? Why would anything want to ignore such graceful and feral calamity behind the veil and impotence of four walls when it could bend and dance under a sky-ravaged moon and test the mettle of its character?

Tonight we were free. Beautiful and wild and free. Tonight we were one with the wind.

A Night So Big

This night was so big, the sky so vast and clear, the wind so gentle Duncan and I could've hunkered down on the grass, still warm from an afternoon spent glowing under the sun, and outlined a constellation for every person I know, from my mother, with a speckle of stars dancing like clouds of humming birds around her head, to Lori, with a pack of dogs running wild like comets at her feet. It was a beautiful night and our walk felt like it could last forever, like it should last forever. The light tickled the surface of the lake, rippling across it as it washed up on the bank, which has receded several feet over the past month. Duncan hoped to chase the ducks swimming along the shore, so we walked down in the place where the water used to be, mottled and wave-scarred sand which felt hard when stepped upon but turned soft and gave away each time I lifted my foot. The air was so clear I swear, given enough time I could've smelled what you cooked for dinner and listened as the wind carried your whispers across the miles. Duncan rolled in the grass, picking up the once-leaves, catching them in his long hair, and though The Shepherds passed quite near, nervous at the sight of us, their companions reluctantly leashing and pulling them in the opposite direction, we did not care, did not let their appearance mar the night. There were no spectacular colors, only the warmth of the shadows and the memory of the scent of the Russian Olives as we passed by them on the lake trail, the gentle chink of Duncan's collar and leash bouncing and ringing with each step and discovery.

Salvation in the Details

Spring is sooner recognized by plants than by men
(Chinese Proverb)

It can be rough, this Springing of the world, as rough as childbirth, with its groaning and pains, pushing and thrusting, and difficult to look beyond what we think we feel and see at any given moment. It would be all to easy to think Spring had forsaken us this year, in this long and dreary April, which all too often has worn the guise of March. Long gray days strung together do little to lift the spirits. But, as I've often said, God is in the details and it takes a sharp eye and a willing heart to truly see.

I did not want to walk today. The afternoon did exactly as I predicted by churning up winds and snow at the precise moment I leashed up Duncan and pulled my scarf tight around my neck. Duncan, who'd laid on the bed staring out the window all afternoon, was not as reluctant as I so he did what any good dog does on a walk, which is pull and drag in all the right spots, pause and sniff at appropriate places and wait and wait and wait for me to make a discovery that I should have seen but missed because of laziness and unwillingness. April has been lost on me, behind the clouds and the snow bursts which cover the yards and cars, then melt only to burst upon us again, over and over, days without sunshine or color.But there before me were all the details of the world, the delicate, struggling things which persevere and push through the lingering winter. While Duncan rolls on the ground in the last of the once-leaves, the fuzzy tails of the Aspens in bloom dance across my vision, tickling my cheek before I notice them. Other trees whose names I don't know are covered in blossoms of fine red hair that catches the snow, pulling it like an anemone grasping for food in the dark, wet places of the world. The junipers are exploding with berries and soon the ground beneath them will be littered with thousands of bright blue balls. When I was young we gathered them, clutching them until they burst and smeared thick purple skins and green pulp between our fingers. We played war with the remnants in the ravine behind my home, using wide drinking straws to blow them at each other, sending them flying through the air like bombs.

There is so much of Spring all around us, minute and easily overlooked. But on days that aren't quite what we yearn for or feel we deserve it's especially important to open our eyes and seek out these tiny blessings. They are the things that make the walks worthwhile. They are the salvation of our spirit in these bland and cold days.

Sunday Coming On

Just before the storm broke Duncan and I were standing outside. The sun had not yet risen and the sky was at that inbetween place, wanting to be light because that's what it was supposed to do, but still dark because it had filled with low clouds that hadn't yet said what they wanted to say. While Duncan searched out his bathroom spot, his feet crunching on the stiff, frosted grass, I pulled my coat around me, bounced on my knees and watched the waiting world decide what it wanted to do. There was no noise except the wind blowing over Bowles, rattling the bits of twig, once-leaves and the occasional fast-food wrapper which had collected in the rain gutters. Then even the wind stopped and the world caught it's breath. Duncan squatted in the silence while I held my ear against the morning and listened the way a person pushes their palm against a pregnant belly and waits to feel a kick or a shove. The silence was deep, underwatery. And then I felt the air churn, a burp really, as it stirred to life, little more than sound followed by a fluttery movement in the trees and then the singing of my chimes, first the small silver ones, then the ceramic ones, and finally the long, wide bamboo ones with their hollow boat sound. I felt the first flakes before I saw them, like cold air popping on my cheeks, near my nose, in my eyelashes. And then I could see them, like dust motes, not falling so much as drifting, into the street. Duncan's collar jingled and I looked to see he'd finished his business and was waiting for me to take him inside and back to bed, which is exactly what I did. There will be plenty of time later to watch the world. Now is the time for sleeping and cuddling.

Sunday Sixty-Five

I'm not so good at breakfast. Don't get me wrong, I make some pretty good ones (just ask David, Kelly, Kevi and Mike, who've all had my dessert-like puff pancake with yogurt, fresh berries, peaches, bananas, apples with a single scoop of vanilla ice cream), I'm just not so great at taking the time to eat it regularly. That's why I make my own yogurt (Yo-Curt! Citrus Pumpkin is my newest flavor, although I'm pretty good at Honey Maple as well) and have started making breakfast pies, with eggs, bacon, pepper, onions, potatoes and smoked white cheddar cheese, all wrapped in a nice homemade bread dough. After they're done I toss them in the fridge so Ken and I can pop them in the microwave before heading out the door.

This is what I spend the majority of my Sundays doing, in addition to the grocery shopping and laundry. Today was a difficult day to spend inside. The temperatures rose to above 65° and the birds and sunshine were calling to me. As expected, Winnie, Pip and Olive did what cats do best by staking out their respective patches of sunshine in front of the various southern-facing windows. Because the morning was warm, I opened the patio doors and let Duncan lounge outside, where I joined him between various cooking sprees. Rather than listen to Dave Brubeck, I turned on the Magic Feather CD my friend Traci made me for my drive to Idaho last month. It was perfect for lounging around, lazily reading Tom Spanbauer and sipping Egyptian Licorice tea, scratching Duncan behind the ears and watching the chorus of little birds which had assembled to sing and hop from naked branch to naked branch in the tree just off the patio. Duncan was content to sprawl on his side and snore, only occasionally perking up long enough to watch a brown plastic bag he kept mistaking for a squirrel as it fluttered, caught in the bars of the fence.

Duncan, of course, couldn't care less what I was doing. He wanted only to walk or pick up the bits and chunks which accidentally slipped off the counter and fell onto the floor. He could hear the geese flocking up across the street in the park, so after what I'm sure seemed an eternity, we strolled out the front gates and walked down Leawood to the elementary school, where there weren't any geese, but horses, at which he got to stare confoundedly through the fences. The sound of dripping and running snow-melt was everywhere. It trickled and sparkled as it raced alongside us against the curb, pulling once-leaves and Pooh Sticks with it.

But the geese were calling from the park, where they'd gathered to enjoy the sunshine and warmth in the relative safety of the fenced-in baseball field. Duncan stalked along the chain links, his head low, keeping his eye on them as he herded them from the outfield to the infield. Once satisfied with their positioning he hurtled himself against the fence and without raising a bark, propelled the geese straight up into the air where they headed west toward the lake and the mountains.

Deeplier, Deeplier

Deeplier, deeplier, loudlier, loudlier,
The trees are swaying, swaying, swaying.
(Wallace Stevens, The Region November)

I have not had this much hair in a long time. It's not long hair, but it's long by Curt Standards. For the past twelve years or so, after long college hair and a rather gruesome Marty Stouffer beard, I practically shaved my head and have kept my hair close-cropped ever since. This past Fall I decided to grow it out, just to see how long I could go before hacking it off again (it's never more than a month or two) and I've recently rediscovered what it's like to have the wind blow through my hair rather than across my slowly expanding forehead.

Tonight my hair was all over the place. The wind was tremendous, shaking the trees, roaring through the branches, erasing the clouds from the sky in minutes, leaving only faint smears, like smudges of chalk on a blackboard. The park was littered with sticks and dragging Duncan through it was challenge. There were so many differing agendas on our walk tonight that I'm still not sure which direction we went in. I was plowing ahead, leaning into the gale, squinting through the shrapnel of once-leaves, pursing my lips to keep from inhaling bark; Duncan wanted only to stop and chew or chase stray leaves that whipped past us like tiny bouncing cars; my hair wanted to do it's own thing, puff up big or blow back flat.

We forced our way home, stalking two bunnies on the way, and collapsed in heaps on the couch, wind-whipped and tired. It'll be good sleep tonight.

Once-Leaf

Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
(Robert Frost, Nothing Gold Can Stay)

The leaves have long since given up looking like leaves. They have been ground down, trod upon and whipped around by the wind and the men who come weekly to rake them up and carry them down to the floor of The Glen, where they linger only briefly before climbing up the hill, across the parking lot where they make their way, like butterflies, back to the trees where they were born. I am convinced they are the same leaves, transformed: sharp, tiny pieces of parchment on which have been written the secret love poems of Autumn. Their shapes are not all they have lost; their voices are gone now as well. There is nothing musical in their dancing nor rhythmic in the way they crunch underfoot. Now they are little more than slivers that sting the eyes and lodge under my pant cuffs in the ridges of my socks. They stick to Duncan, mat in his tail and the long hair of his ears where they don't even whisper anymore. They have ceased to be leaves, and leaves are what make the Autumn bearable. Now it is the sky alone which carries color.

Walk Whitman claimed, "Every leaf a miracle," and they are remarkable things, their veined surfaces bearing the rough shape of the tree, a map of their lineage, a living geneology of sorts. Like poems they are born of something bigger that falls away, becoming its own thing, something unique and without definition yet still carrying the mark of what it once was. Leaves are an essence of the tree as poems are fragments of that which inspired them, a moment, an image, a glance.

These once-leaves pain me. A week ago they were art, now they are little more than accumulation, biting reminders of what came before. They are dead poems, broken and cast aside, clogging my vacuum and unfit even for the tail of a dog.