Autographing Autumn
I was walking, first field—
verdant, glorious
carpet of greens—
then woods edged closer,
a beckoning trail
paved in cast-off fassicles,
punctuated with wily
old roots in no
pattern whatsoever.
Sky rarified blue, bluer,
an artist’s glad canvas,
background perfection to
the leaves! Yellow and orange,
rusty brown, green,
pure gold, shimmering
against that ocean of sky.
A gradual descent
along the people-made path,
and then a turn revealed
more signs of us:
piles of stones and bits
of writing paper, a charm,
all left like an offering
atop a stump.
How interesting, humankind.
That we feel a need to inscribe everything,
as if
he/she, they/we
are contributing artists,
as if we are desperate
to make ourselves known,
to say, in some small or grander way,
I am here.
still here,
I was here.
How is it that the leaves of oak and maple,
the chipmunks, the needles of pine,
are so willing to be here in their time
and exit quietly
to make space for the new
but we
who fancy ourselves smarter, more capable,
have so much difficulty
letting go?
–Melinda Coppola
photo:Bird Park Walpole MA
by Melinda
Talking poetry and special needs parenting