Dark Oak Leaves

Dark Oak Leaves


The rock that cannot be explained
sits in the same place,
not far from the barbed fence
and sings like a meadowlark.
This day the wind is harsh and the grass bends,
no yellow feathers spot the field's bare spaces.

Years ago I stood in song
and looked towards trees,
moved from branch to branch
with the flying squirrels.
Even now, at my feet,
the pale purple clustered flowers,
Whose name I never knew,
are bright as if I were young.

My years have been spent as if
time were money
and had no meaning in itself.
The purchases did not end loneliness,
or accumulate souvenirs.
Now the path back to the house
Is gone, and the narrow space
between spiderwebs

Has been opened to empty space where one
can walk without having their shoulders
caressed by leaves, or their shoes caked
with dark, wet oak leaves.
The clearing is like the life I lived
as a petty Socrates.


Duane Locke

Posted over on The Rose & Thorn