Am meisten gelesen ▸
Sara Teasdale
The Seine flows out of the mist
And into the mist again;
The trees lean over the water,
The small leaves fall like rain.
The leaves fall patiently,
Nothing remembers or grieves;
The river takes to the sea
The yellow drift of the leaves.
Milky and cold is the air,
The leaves float with the stream,
The river comes out of a sleep
And goes away in a dream.
out of doors and fields
the streets full of full people
out of leaves to speak with
and hills to take posture from
out of parts for God
out of world
After weeks of drought,
rain falling in the night
smells so fresh:
wet leaves & ozone
& the soil coming to life.
I keep going outside
to pee off the porch.
a bird is the beginning
of many leaves
getting a book with blank paper
I saw a wing sunk in a field
All the alders
in disorder
fitting themselves
with singing ears
that roar and clap.
an empty space is still data
my phone reminds me
no space is truly empty
a falling leaf reminds me
the time of long shadows
has come ‘round again
cedar waxwings whistle
through bare branches
the low sun catches on wings
in lieu of leaves
rests in a red oak
undressing in the wind
and flickers like an angel
resisting temptation
to follow the leaves down
spinning spiralling
insects of smoke
slick as silkworms
weaving their own
winding sheets
a warmish night brings
them out again
those that still chirp
those that still trill
out of sheer habit
by now i suppose
i remember one of
today’s enigmas
i was waved at
by a dead leaf
attached to an unrelated
dead tree
day breaks
like a wishbone
how lucky
that the longer portion
remains with us
in darkness
under the interstate
in that dull
interminable thunder
a school of salmon-
colored leaves
stream down
from trees given
scraps of now-
worthless land
a cylindrical concrete pier
fallen leaves
slip into my boots
as if having invented flying
off the handle
they’re eager to plunge still further
become agents provocateurs
going to and fro in the earth
and walking up and down in it
like old scratch when he has
a job to do
but what bold and lurid
colors to go out in
painting the town
a sunset red
morning smells like a burning hymnal
now that it’s afternoon
like a vast excavation
by archaeologists of the present
a blend of fresh earth and mildew
ozone and the blood of cut roots
if i were a dancer i would
know what to do
with this wild scent turning
into end-of-summer heat
as it is there are sun-drunk leaves
insects and vagrant warblers
and they seem to have
things under control
while i sit and try to be
a better place holder
having lost the off-
spring in your step
you stare mutely back
at whatever comes
on a gorgeous morning
on an old woods road
that is itself lost
disappearing into the forest
finding again
that old quarry
where a chipmunk
has sunk a shaft
and a giant millipede writhes
her road-self
coiling and uncoiling
it’s cold
i watch from under
my umbrella
the complexly bladed ferns
dancing erratically in the rain
my feet and their forever
war on stasis
the ruts reasserting themselves
through fresh stone
i was only going
for a walk and now
i’m pondering the obligations of ferns
the prerogatives of feet
and the way a green tongue
snakes through everything
as if wisdom grew on trees
as if it were made of gray paper