Leaves

Leaves
were blown my way today by a machine
Stirred into a low curving arc of fragrance drifting into my nose

It's fall.
But I've missed it.
I've missed rushing to the shed to grab a rake with my brother.
Sweeping leaves into piles and jumping.
I've been without a backyard since age 10.

This year I'm too grown up to jump in leaves.

It's November. It's been fall in Bowling Green for a while.

I missed it.
I was busy with what I like to fool myself into believing is my
"adult life."

I've been thinking of higher things.
Last night my roommate handed me a delicious beverage.
Important pups and people walk in, walk out.
Say their words.
Make their noise.

People are self concerned and project their states of mind on other people's lives.

I missed Fall.
I don't have a rake.

The apartment park doesn't have mature enough trees
to shed enough leaves to make a big enough pile.
It's not grown-up town.
I don't see the mature trees at home, only on campus.

Trees. On Campus. Old trees.
Trees big enough to shed enough leaves
for big enough piles
for childish enough students
who are too grown up to walk through that pile.

What I wouldn't give to see those leaves
spilling over the toes of my shoes
and landing on my shin.

Or to feel the leaves crunch,
getting stuck in my hair.

To see the leaves fall over my eyes
while my hand is on the neck of a sweetheart.
Childish enough to jump in the leaves with me.
Mature enough to rake.

Is it just that maturity means being firmly planted,
big and strong enough
to shed dead leaves so children can play in them?