Gathering Leaves

Summer is asleep.
The sun is radiant in the sky,
But it is low and cool, and
The song of the birds has changed.

A soft wind whispers a new season.
The trees sway in their place
In a different dance than before—
They move softer…like ballerinas dancing with butterflies.

In the summer, with its warmth and long days,
I ran through dry fields sweaty
And tired but unwilling to stop.
The sun darkened my skin.

Now, with the cool whisper of the wind,
My running slows. I find myself
In the middle of a large field wondering
How far I ran. I notice my bones are cold.

Alone, I sit in the tall grass.
The dry shoots and loose dirt are hard and brittle.
The sky is blue and the coolness of the air
Feels like I am floating in the sea.

It is time to go home.
My return is different than my going.
I walk now. I feel the wind’s whisper inside of me.
I touch everything, noticing smells and textures.

The tall grass is no longer an obstacle for my feet.
I feel the raw shoots slide between my fingers
And the extra tug it takes to remove the heads of wheat.
I notice the red in the leaves of the trees.

My hands collected more than I intended.
Holding my collection, I bring it to my nose and smell
The cool air and wheat.
It creates dreams of hot bread and a fire.

Looking up I notice something --
A large tree isn’t dancing.
Suddenly, its first leaf falls gently down. I wonder--
How does a tree decide which leaf will be the first to fall?

Waiting, I watch the leaf twirl and slide toward the ground.
It comes slowly…quietly. The blue sky and clouds are still.
Alone, the leaf rests between the blades of grass.
I pick it up and take it home.

Marc Amesse

Remembering

I packed our belongings-
The photo album and our honeymoon picture.
We look so young standing in Yosemite’s valley.
We wore our beanies and our smiles were big.

This day seemed far away once.
We had so many years of laughter, memories
And the enjoyment of our youth and family.
Our kids learned to talk then say “I do”.

Remember the trip home from San Carlos?
Ellie was only four and Ryan was one.
Highway 101 was hot and we had no air conditioning.
Remember the milk shakes and pouring water on the kids?

Remember the gorilla at the Zoo in Santa Barbara?
He ran at the glass to scare us.
You ran from the room afraid, and
I laughed at how silly you were…cute really.

Remember our morning walks to the bay?
In the early days we loaded the kids in the stroller.
Later it was just the two of us getting coffee at Copa de Oro.
We watched the boats alone in the water.

Do you remember how we kissed?
I kissed your upper lip then the lower
Trying to drink all I could from you
Wanting more. You always gave it.

Do you remember where we are going?
I will visit your room every day.
I’ll brush your hair for you in the morning
And put your favorite flowers on your tray.

I never imagined our lives separated in this way-
You living upstairs from me in this place.
Both of us trapped behind bland walls,
Eating retirement food, and you not remembering…
Me.

Marc Amesse

For our grandparents

A Warning

She walked in and signed the papers
With black ink and an unsteady hand.
The man collected them and tapped them
On the desk to line up each page.

The clock on the wall never left midnight.
The papers were laid on the desk and
His sweaty hands were folded resting on top.
She noticed his watch was broken.

A breath…then words ended the silence.
He spoke with memorized lines,
Explaining what she had done. He thanked her.
She noticed his voice was cold.

Nodding, she said nothing, but thought
"How can he work without windows in this heat?"
As she left, she walked out past the waiting line.
No waive, no good bye…just her name in ink.

This poem has no relationship with the one following.

Embers Burn

Beneath a soft ring of ashes Embers burn.
Quietly fading from a flame
Suffocating and slowing cooling
Sleeping beneath the blanket they made.

Wood became a tool of fire,
But it has nothing more to give.
The fire ate and wanted nothing to drink,
But soon it may sip a cool death.

Trapped within the walls of an initial purpose
Of cooking, or forging, or refining
The Embers have no new converts--
No use, no new tool or task.

The fire became something it is not - restful.
Waiting, it will slowly die.
Not forgetting that it needs
More than itself for life.

But, the attempt to stomp it out
Gave the embers flight.
Into the wind and dark sky
Gently, softly, silently the fire flies.

The weak Embers fade and vanish in darkness.
Those with more to give of themselves
Float down slowly anticipating
A transfer of heat with a touch.

Passion has its place again.
Heat will transfer and ignite another
The ember of flight will fade
But the fire's purpose will have its way.

Marc Amesse
July 14, 2005

Seventh Story Begins

So this is a blog!