Ancient Leaves

One of the trees out my window
is holding on to her leaves
for dear life.

They are shriveled, ancient,
brittle, used, light-brown
in color, and facing
the cold but bright morning
sun.

Some say that one needs to
give themselves permission
to die. Some hold on longer
than needed, while others say
goodbye upon first landing on Earth.

I'm not sure what it is with
these leaves. Are they survivors,
or merely afraid of flying?

Perhaps their mother tree
needs a little shaking.

Frustration

Woke up.

I can't do something
so I buy a new machine.

The machine needs batteries
so I go to the store.

Machine still doesn't work,
so take another trip to exchange
the machine.

I try to do the something,
but realize I need the more
expensive machine. It doesn't
need batteries.

Return the machine and batteries
and get the more expensive machine.

Get home. Hungry. Eat dinner.
Then it is too dark to do the job.

Maybe in the morning . . .

Breathing

Trying to pick the best breath is not easy.

Some are forced, some preachy, and some pathetic.
Where is that pure breath
that seemed so right at the moment–
unencumbered, fresh, ruthless, and brilliant?

Where is the one that came from my heart and soul,
and did not try to console, persuade, and impress?

Where is the one that I would save in a burning fire,
if there was only time to save one?

Where is the breath that I could take
to the next life
to show who I really am?

Oh, here it is, the one
where I stumbled over a twig
laying in the path.

Dirty Dish

Sometimes we just face a
dirty dish, full of crumbs,
once showered and purified,
now tainted and ready for
a cleansing.

What was on the plate was good
enough for our innards,
but now needs to be
sterilized off.

I imagine an invisible army of germs
hovering above the dining
room table, waiting for my
last bite before they
attack. God bless them for
holding out until I finish eating.

Another Morning

I look out the same magic window
that is never the same.

Yesterday, all was still,
while today the wind caresses
the few tree limbs with leaves
and the yellow orange school bus whizzes by.

The sky is white, ready for rain
or a few frigid snow flakes.

The woodpile
waits for winter.
The logs are fast asleep
with their ends
darkened with moisture.

The evergreens, in their moment of glory,
display their rich greens and
mock the shedding trees
for giving up their year's work.

Brrr . . .

It is cold this morning.

Everything is still.
Even the shriveled
leaves are asleep,

their molecules hibernating
until the sun shines again.

The dogs go out, but come
back moments later
when they smell toast,
chancing that the possibility
for a handout
is greater than

the discomfort from
the brrr
of the winter morning.

Trash

I pick up trash by the street.
I fill a garbage bag
with whiskey bottles, fast food debris,
and unmentionables.

I wonder if these gifts appear
through some miscomprehension
of the free-speech doctrine
guaranteed by the constitution,

or if the trash's disposition
is the result of civil
or divine disobedience,

or perhaps, if some of the drivebys
are just thoughtless
or downright angry
gestures.