Silence and the Red-Yellow Leaf

A leaf fell on my hand today.
You were rambling, again, on
money and means, and the simplicity
of just walking away from the demons
teasing pocket books of corporate employers,
with organic crumbs encrusted into the cracks
of your fingernails, and—for the first time in years—the pride
of creating your own happiness painted messily
across your lips.
But, I . . .

I was watching the leaf struggle for breath,
tumble from lifeblood, then swirl and
swirl and swirl into oblivion and down
onto the red, cracked, Wisconsin-bred skin
of my forefingers—
examining the way your left eye twitches,
just a bit, when you’re infuriated,
and the fact that you always
declare me bored, when in all reality,
I’m just painting my own side of your story
in tones that don’t quite scratch my eardrums, so,
and leaves that seem to weigh much more heavily
upon my mind than grudges, and money,
conspiracy, and the way Jenny always
makes you want to scream for sanity sake. 

[Weren’t you listening, love?]
        —silence, and the red-yellow leaf, should make you wonder
                as much of yourself.