Friday, May 13, 2016

“Crinkled Leaf” by David Pring-Mill, Frequent Contributor


Crinkled Leaf
David Pring-Mill

One crinkled leaf
scrapes and scratches
on City Hall lawn,
as persuasive air
picks it up
and moves it along.
Its dry sound, for me, is linked
to imagery of paper –
sheets spat out by printers,
and folded, torn, discarded.

Beyond the ascent
of steps,
and imposing columns,
the shuffling asks
players to dance
with each burst.
Mass disappointment
gets ritualized,
with booths
and ornamental signs.

But the laws of nature
declare autumn
without discussion
or delay.
And Physics is allowed
to prattle on
in open chamber.

The river runs through a canyon
with narrowing walls,
bringing with it
stray bits from orange forest;
this gets witnessed
a few blocks away.
And the air carries aromas
from the farmers' market.

Over blades of yellowed grass,
perspectives crawl;
But colors riot
in red and gold.

This parched world
keeps turning.

Poet's Notes:  Predictably enough, I wrote this poem in autumn, while sitting outside of City Hall.

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