Raz
Bluelighter
I wrote a poem on a leaf once.
I found a leaf in the Carlton Gardens, and it was the biggest leaf I'd ever seen of its kind. It was the color of Autumn, all reds and rusty browns and faded orange hues. This was a few years ago now, when I was in the grip of everything which cannot be described as positive, and it was one of the few things to be able to shake me out of my downward spiral (to coin a phrase).
I felt moved to write a poem upon it, and while I don't remember the poem anymore I do remember the feeling of writing it. Accomplishment. Inspiration. I remembered hoping that someone else would find that leaf and not cut their arms that night. I remembered hoping I could give that at least to someone and maybe that would redeem me for all my own perceived faults.
Of course, I never found out what happened to that leaf. I left it on a tram and had some idea that I would know eventually. I guess I kind of hoped it would find its way back to me, and I would know that it had gone on some kind of journey. Any journey other than just being ignored.
I wonder what happened to that leaf sometimes. I like to think that it still exists, though is maybe a little worse for wear. I like to think that my small gesture made a difference in the haze of pain that we all wade through every day. I like to think that when somebody was wishing for someone to notice them, they would find my leaf and their pain would be forgotten, even if just for a minute. I like to think that I taught someone that somebody is always thinking about us.
Autumn is the time when trees die and branches lose their coats, but it's also the time when things start to put themselves away and save themselves for another day. It's the time when children who don't know nature can learn what nature is. It's a time of change, and change is never wrong.
I wrote a poem on a leaf once.
I found a leaf in the Carlton Gardens, and it was the biggest leaf I'd ever seen of its kind. It was the color of Autumn, all reds and rusty browns and faded orange hues. This was a few years ago now, when I was in the grip of everything which cannot be described as positive, and it was one of the few things to be able to shake me out of my downward spiral (to coin a phrase).
I felt moved to write a poem upon it, and while I don't remember the poem anymore I do remember the feeling of writing it. Accomplishment. Inspiration. I remembered hoping that someone else would find that leaf and not cut their arms that night. I remembered hoping I could give that at least to someone and maybe that would redeem me for all my own perceived faults.
Of course, I never found out what happened to that leaf. I left it on a tram and had some idea that I would know eventually. I guess I kind of hoped it would find its way back to me, and I would know that it had gone on some kind of journey. Any journey other than just being ignored.
I wonder what happened to that leaf sometimes. I like to think that it still exists, though is maybe a little worse for wear. I like to think that my small gesture made a difference in the haze of pain that we all wade through every day. I like to think that when somebody was wishing for someone to notice them, they would find my leaf and their pain would be forgotten, even if just for a minute. I like to think that I taught someone that somebody is always thinking about us.
Autumn is the time when trees die and branches lose their coats, but it's also the time when things start to put themselves away and save themselves for another day. It's the time when children who don't know nature can learn what nature is. It's a time of change, and change is never wrong.
I wrote a poem on a leaf once.
