The dead leaf moved,
nudged by an unseen hand.
Was this its last quiver —
the death throes
before its final flutter?
God,
I felt like that leaf.
I think that’s why it caught my attention.
Right out of the corner of my eye.
It took me by surprise,
because I was inside the house,
not out.
Yes indeed,
it seemed like an apt metaphor
for my stage of life.
It sounds morose,
but of course it’s just the reality
we all face
and simply refuse to see.
The wind
bloweth where it listeth,
you see.
It seemed fair to me.
I was deliberately seeking a house
with a breeze —
the pneuma.
It was a matter of life and death,
after all.
It was surprisingly quiet,
barely a rustle,
but that moved me somehow.
I needed to get this down
in black and white,
in some kind of note to self.
We had so much in common,
you see —
that leaf and me.
Greying
and wrinkled,
skin dried out in the sun,
weatherbeaten
and browbeaten.
Leaf clinging tenuously
to cold, twiggy fingers.
My hands
on loved ones.
And the frozen breath from my lungs
on this chilly winter’s day.