First, I took a running leap,
and then, half buried in the heap
that we’d raked up, I lingered, caught
in a cocoon of leaves and thought.
I still remember how they smelled,
those castoffs autumn winds had felled—
both old and fresh, both wild and clean,
the sweet decay of summer’s green;
and how they looked—small flags half-furled,
hot colors from a chilling world.
I breathed more deeply for a few
enchanted seconds. More leaves flew
as Dad watched, leaning on his rake.
He must have known what seasons take.
Leaves bright as fire broadcast their dark
reminder: beauty was a spark
that couldn’t last, the freshened breath
of autumn air foreshadowed death.
But even so, my father grinned
and turned his face into the wind.
Years later, I’d learn just how brave
my father was, and how a wave
of chill or doubt could leave him caught
in his own grim cocoon of thought.
A darkness stalked him, but he lit
bright fires of love and work and wit,
and faced the wind, and found his way
for decades past that autumn day.
And now I kindle every flash
of memory that warms the ash
of loss. I see his profile still,
and face my autumns with his will. 

This poem was shortlisted for the Rhina Espaillat Poetry Award in 2021. Find out more details and how to enter your poems here.