LEAVES OF THE NIGHT

Steve Bakalyar

Moonlight through tangerine leaves

casts a speckled glow about my shadow.

A dim odor evokes the childhood memory

of a leaf pile—smoldering and pungent.

We were baptized

by immersion in the pile,

scattering the leaves

then raking

scattering

then raking.

At last the cremation was prepared.

Nude oaks, stoic,

awaited the annual rite,

their progeny the pyre.

A match’s sparking trumpet call!

Leaf-souls ascended,

skeleton embers

in a final graceful act

rendered umber perfume

that slowed the heartbeat,

stretched the nighttime.

All was well.

I linger in this reverie,

forestall a restive sleep

in which my troubled people—

wife, children, siblings—

will churn,

leaves in a dark whirlwind

never soaring to morning’s blush

nor drifting to a peaceful grounding.

2013