(Sequel to “I Learn Faith From a Leaf”)
The sky's vacant spot sparks anguish.
Winds lift and lower leafless twig.
Where was I when they parted?
Leaf shared vexing trials of pandemic, election.
I shed guilt to mourn my soothing summer pal.
One can live only in the present moment.
Job done, leaf left.
I'll live beyond loss but wish I'd farewelled it.
Was I in darkened dawn with Sharon, waking?
On a block romp with our rescue dog, Boey?
Calculating painstakingly precise grounds amounts for — voila!— the perfect French Roast ☕ kitchen cup?
Jogging in place while a window witness to pigeon babes' first flights from neighbors' aged air conditioner?
Predicting politics with Robert in sidewalk session as “the Oracles of Albemarle”?
Decoding my legal pad's ink scribbles in search of story themes?
Had leaf and twig embraced in love, or was their touch transactional?
Sidewalk leaves I inspect seem alike — curly, crunchy, foot-stomped or wind-torn, vulnerable but defiant.
I can't find mine to preserve in bound pages.
I salute as the riddle disarms me.
The lower leaf of lush summer time
Twig alone lives by my writing space's window.