Falling Leaves

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Falling Leaves — Bet Briggs

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Where do brown leaves go
when they fall from city’s trees?
Dry brittle wafers on the streets,
waif-like, have nowhere to rest.
Pavement cannot absorb them:
unrelenting bitumen and brick
inflict a ceaseless torment;
winds sift and stir and drive
crisp eddies into forlorn drifts,
feet pestle them to dust.

Only in those unpaved edens:
backyards flush with flowers,
forgotten vacant lots
like wilderness restored,
green tranquillity of parks
where city breathes, does soft earth
bed them deep and warm
in silent, safe, sustaining dark.
Only the earth receives them,
brings their brown ruin home.

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