12-21-2014, 01:38 AM
Kneeling in the Autumn Garden
Something in my chest that smells like my heart
twists and slides quietly
under the fallen leaves;
under the aspen leaves, the cherry leaves, the apple leaves
that lie still over the red stones.
Something in the air that smells like a cold hearth
sinks and pools idly
between the waiting stones;
between the patient stones, the stubborn stones, the durable stones
that lie unburied on the steady ground.
I reach out my hand but do not touch
close to the chill earth
over the place where no warm rustle was;
over the lost leaves, the gold leaves, the heavy leaves
that lie absently on the enduring stones.
I bow my head but not to the weight of pain
downward to the unseen track beneath the leaves
downward to the unfelt rustle of warmth
downward to the unburied patience of the stones
and feel the cold and stubborn kindness of the turning earth.
Leah S.
Revision 1:
Something in my chest, that smells like my raw heart,
(OR) tastes like my old tears, (Pick one?)
twists and slides quietly
under the fallen leaves;
under the aspen leaves, the cherry leaves, the apple leaves,
that lie still over the red stones.
Something in the air, that smells like a cold hearth,
sinks and pools idly
between the waiting stones;
between the patient stones, the stubborn stones, the constant stones,
that lie unburied on the steady ground.
I reach out my hand, but do not touch,
close to the chill earth;
over the place where no warm rustle is;
over the lost leaves, the gold leaves, the heavy leaves,
that lie unmoved on the enduring stones.
I bow my head, but not to the weight of pain,
downward to the unseen track beneath the leaves,
downward to the unfelt rustle of warmth,
downward to the unburied patience of the stones,
and feel the cold and stubborn kindness of the turning earth.
Revision 2
Something in my chest,
that smelled to me like my raw heart,
twisted and slid quietly
under the fallen leaves;
under the aspen leaves, the cherry leaves, the apple leaves,
that lay still on the red stones.
Something in the air,
that smelled to me like a cold hearth,
sank and pooled secretly
between the waiting stones;
between the patient stones, the stubborn stones, the constant stones,
that lay still on the gray ground.
I reached out my hand, but did not touch,
close to the chill earth;
over the place where no warm rustle was;
over the lost leaves, the gold leaves, the dull leaves,
that lay dead on the plain stones.
I bowed my head, but not to the weight of pain,
bending to the unseen track beneath the leaves,
bending to the unfelt rustle of warmth,
bending to the unburied forbearance of the stones,
as I felt the cold and stubborn kindness of the turning earth.
Something in my chest that smells like my heart
twists and slides quietly
under the fallen leaves;
under the aspen leaves, the cherry leaves, the apple leaves
that lie still over the red stones.
Something in the air that smells like a cold hearth
sinks and pools idly
between the waiting stones;
between the patient stones, the stubborn stones, the durable stones
that lie unburied on the steady ground.
I reach out my hand but do not touch
close to the chill earth
over the place where no warm rustle was;
over the lost leaves, the gold leaves, the heavy leaves
that lie absently on the enduring stones.
I bow my head but not to the weight of pain
downward to the unseen track beneath the leaves
downward to the unfelt rustle of warmth
downward to the unburied patience of the stones
and feel the cold and stubborn kindness of the turning earth.
Leah S.
Revision 1:
Something in my chest, that smells like my raw heart,
(OR) tastes like my old tears, (Pick one?)
twists and slides quietly
under the fallen leaves;
under the aspen leaves, the cherry leaves, the apple leaves,
that lie still over the red stones.
Something in the air, that smells like a cold hearth,
sinks and pools idly
between the waiting stones;
between the patient stones, the stubborn stones, the constant stones,
that lie unburied on the steady ground.
I reach out my hand, but do not touch,
close to the chill earth;
over the place where no warm rustle is;
over the lost leaves, the gold leaves, the heavy leaves,
that lie unmoved on the enduring stones.
I bow my head, but not to the weight of pain,
downward to the unseen track beneath the leaves,
downward to the unfelt rustle of warmth,
downward to the unburied patience of the stones,
and feel the cold and stubborn kindness of the turning earth.
Revision 2
Something in my chest,
that smelled to me like my raw heart,
twisted and slid quietly
under the fallen leaves;
under the aspen leaves, the cherry leaves, the apple leaves,
that lay still on the red stones.
Something in the air,
that smelled to me like a cold hearth,
sank and pooled secretly
between the waiting stones;
between the patient stones, the stubborn stones, the constant stones,
that lay still on the gray ground.
I reached out my hand, but did not touch,
close to the chill earth;
over the place where no warm rustle was;
over the lost leaves, the gold leaves, the dull leaves,
that lay dead on the plain stones.
I bowed my head, but not to the weight of pain,
bending to the unseen track beneath the leaves,
bending to the unfelt rustle of warmth,
bending to the unburied forbearance of the stones,
as I felt the cold and stubborn kindness of the turning earth.