O My Father

by Audrey Bartholomew

Wounded leaves,

rust-red with the blood of Indian Summer,

lie dying

in the mud-brown furrowed ditch.

The frost arrives

and pinches the faces

of onlooking, curious weeds,

then slowly draws a sheet of ice

over the thin, now lifelessly-brittle bodies.

Way above,

a smooth, strong branch beckons the leaves

home.

Photo by Paul R. Willie