When I bend low in autumn
to gather fallen leaves
Each one holds a memory
I’m longing to retrieve.
My childhood home before me,
the window up above,
where I beheld each season
the maple tree I loved.
Mother was a gardner
raising corn for harvest.
Father was a builder
with wood and brick an artist.
We children ruled a kingdom
in summer we would seek
to exercise our power
over crawdads in the creek.
The golden leaves speak clearly
of fireflies in jars.
Dreaming by the campfire
and watching shooting stars.
Then the leaves fall silent.
Their voices disappear
Now rise as word on paper
to speak in later years.
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