poem

 Shelf LifeI feel bad for the autumn leaves that hangAround too long, clinging to thin limbsAs the calendar flips to NovemberDesiccated like the cracked leather gloveNailed to a wall in a closet In Chirico ' sSong of LoveSome of these shriveled leaves never fall at allCradled high up within witch ’s claw branches Spend the winter clustered in browned banana bunchesBuffeted to a feeble chattering by paint stripping windsIt ' s a error to mistake this resistance to gravityFor a form of relative immortalityThey know themselves they should have let go They know themselves the wind was a chariotAll that ’s left is a wistful nostalgia for the glossy Foreign currency orange flourishOf early October, glowing with colorsBefore ever knowing they had once been greenExultant from all the attention ofEveryone suddenly interested Taking pictures, pointing up at them in the sky —Fluttering against the deep blue sky Feeling beautiful and worthy and wholeWithout ever wondering why 11/22/22

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - November 22, 2022 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs