chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

Tag Archives: leaves

found poem: the silhouette

found poem: grammar

found poem: Forest

found poem: life takes over

found poem: what plants

found poem: orange

found poem: green

found poem: the overcast

found poem: Today

found poem: not a Wood

found poem: something

found poem: the warming

the leaves…

before…

METICULOUSLY…

fall

on a puddle…

Sit…

trying to write…

sea foam at Nags Head, N.C. Photo: Gerry Broome / APAs I begin the morning, a spray of words runs ahead of my thoughts, dream debris: hominy, harmony, effervesce, Labrador, Argentine, cinema. They arise without sense or intent, present to be noted: scraped off the surface, foam; stirred in to the cup of thought, cream; raked up with many more until the pile is big enough to ignite, leaves.

Photo: Gerry Broome / AP

Among the leaves…

leaves and friend
My jacket should be emblazoned with a warning: I stop for leaves. The day is clear, the sun turning the last of the red and orange trees into stained glass. I bend to pick up shards of maple and oak, turn them in my fingers, let them sink back to the littered ground.

Ahead of the wind, the day’s ambitious raking demarcates yards. But enormous drifts of color pool through the neighborhood. In one, perhaps 30 feet from the nearest house, a tiny pumpkin shines in its failed camouflage.

From the dozens of leaves I’ve picked up and dropped, I keep two huge, glossy maples, carry them with me and set them, curious centerpieces far from trees, on the metal table anchored to the sidewalk outside the museum.

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