“Autumn Ritual” for my mother, scan of Japanese oak leaves and rice paper
Foliage Gesture
When a leaf is born
chlorophyll dominates
like a baby’s plump green inexperience.
Mid-age orange and red intensity
crackles underfeet. It seems
the leaves are summoned
into old age brown like your wooden
countenance is confined
to your room away from trees
that you bought and planted
and loved and cut down.
I recall our fall ritual and reach up
the maple’s long neck for a sprig
of yellow transformed to gold
in the light.
Perhaps my last gift for you
are leaving colors.
Your face is a white leaf
not knowing.