I went down the green
Slide of summer. At the bottom was a pile of leaves:
Empty, broken shells;
Too many openings for the heart of one child.
So let’s put one large brushstroke of green
Across the now exposed winter sky. The gray
Is hard to cover and the remaining leaves
That are stemmed to the light
At tunnel’s end are in the dark.
But their sprawl, consisting of green to brown,
And the translucent reds, oranges,
Or yellows in the middles are only the colors
Of dying fear. The tremble in that tunnel is in
Between death dying so that life can be born.
So maybe the leaves in a pile aren’t broken
And my view of blue sky is from underneath
The kaleidoscope of their combinations,
Dignity like jewels of Heaven
Against the rain and wind.
