Fall in North America | November 6, 2024

by Charity Carlson Hirst

Today I am a small, lonely leaf, 

trembling among bare branches of oak,

mottled with ugly brown spots that resemble

stains of dried blood on a crimson wool cloak.

On this cloudy fall day the bitter wind hurts.

Old trees sway in the breeze, smaller twigs bend and break.

As my tenuous stem rattles like dry bones in the dirt,

dying grass bows in waves like the cold ocean’s wake.

The sea stirs below me, endless ripples within ripples,

granite waves beat the shore with splashing gulps in loud sobs.

Knobby kelp churns into clusters of floating green boils 

by an ocean in constant motion; the salt water throbs.

Its power is at once formidable and familiar,

always changing yet somehow remaining the same.

Off in the distance, I see a small lighthouse

but today it is dark, no guiding beams call my name. 

How easy to let the wind carry me like a sail,

float toward the blue-gray horizon where the sea meets the sky.

But I’m not ready to let go quite yet.

As I cling to my twig at the edge of the water,

tempest twisting me round, trying to force my release,

a young couple runs toward the rocks on the shore,

peeling off all their clothes while they descend, piece by piece. 

Despite – or maybe because of – the frigid water and wind

they dive right in.  

Just to feel alive. 

Just because they can.

Turning to watch them go, I see

a few other leaves that still remain. Like me. 

Finding the strength to hold fast on the same bereft branch 

as relentless gales pummel, we fix our gaze on the sea.

Maybe tomorrow we will fall. 

Maybe next year’s leaves can 

burn a little brighter, 

last a little longer. 

For today it will be enough to remember

that I am still here. I am still alive. 

And just hold on.