Grandmother’s feuille-morte quilt
brown, crimson, tan, amber, purple
beckons me barefoot
but if I dared
my feet would sink in cold slippery leaves
soggy black dirt and gnarled twigs.
Newly released leaves spiral down as I roam further into the woods
the rush of the freeway behind the grove
could just as easily be a river or the waves of Lake Michigan
white noise, they call it – a suggestion that the listener pay no attention
as if each wave didn’t have its own call, each gust its own sound
each falling leaf its own message
as if I am supposed to ignore the ochre leaf’s sigh as it floated down just beyond the swampy bog.
This is life putting itself to bed
all whispers and hush, so as not to disturb those already at rest
its thread-bare shawl, gilded with deep mahogany reds, fiery oranges, improbable purples
reveals bare limbs that tremble with the cold
delicate milkweed flowers wave tiny white and pink pom poms against a sea of dried tall grass
dried pods droop, sending seeds earthward, white fluff airborne
berries cling, some still red, some blanched to a dull gold.
With a crown woven from cast off twigs and berries and stalks and leaves
I become the princess of the death garden
dance in the wet dark dirt, kick up disintegrating detritus
send aloft the just-fallen leaf
giving it just one more breath of an after life
like we all want as we prepare to leave our once-dense life
one last chance to rise, reach beyond the skeletal treetop canopy, kiss the sky and clouds goodnight
one last fantasy to outsmart corporeal limits, defy gravity, soar before our peaceful final descent.