“Crinkled Leaf” by David Pring-Mill, Frequent Contributor

Crinkled Leaf

David Pring-Mill

One crinkled leaf

scrapes and scratches

on City Hall lawn,

as persuasive air

picks it up

and moves it along.

Its dry sound, for me, is linked

to imagery of paper –

sheets spat out by printers,

and folded, torn, discarded.

Beyond the ascent

of steps,

and imposing columns,

the shuffling asks

players to dance

with each burst.

Mass disappointment

gets ritualized,

with booths

and ornamental signs.

But the laws of nature

declare autumn

without discussion

or delay.

And Physics is allowed

to prattle on

in open chamber.

The river runs through a canyon

with narrowing walls,

bringing with it

stray bits from orange forest;

this gets witnessed

a few blocks away.

And the air carries aromas

from the farmers' market.

Over blades of yellowed grass,

perspectives crawl;

But colors riot

in red and gold.

This parched world

keeps turning.

Poet's Notes:  Predictably enough, I wrote this poem in autumn, while sitting outside of City Hall.