By: Robyn Argyle
(attempt at poetry take three)
They began in spring,
tiny green fists clenched tight
to the smooth skin of their mother.
They grew far too fast;
fanning out, spreading thin.
They clung so strong
though the wind blew angry.
Flat, leather limbs
refusing to falter, or bend
or spin to the ground.
They didn't plan for autumn.
Did not feel the chill
or see the browning grass beneath
their proud, tall perch.
They were invincible.
But October brought frost
and November brought snow.
They stopped getting food.
Their bodies grew brighter, and duller
and finally fell apart.
They caught in my hair,
whirlwinds around my shoes,
little helicopters spiraling down
sleeting in the sky
skittering across parking lots.
I bent and caught a handful.
Brown and gold and brittle
they crinkled in my hand.
I could see through their glossy
web-work of crisscross.
They looked like stretched
wide dragonfly wings
torn from small slender bodies;
I threw the handful to the breeze
and watched them fly away.
*picture from Google*
