For Those Who Say That I Missed Peak Leaf Season

Esther Marcella

 They tell me the leaves

have passed peak, for beauty

sneaks away from squeaks

of judgment.

The jealousy of a moment

won’t catch in my throat.

My rivulets in wrists,

my stance in forest,

I am a joyful sound.

In generous stillness,

weightless breezes,

cinnamon-brown flutterby

allows me to spy her expanse,

rest on leaf yellow-lime,

before I return to walking

this path of pebbles with a poem.

My shadow flows in shadow

of evergreen.

After cut-breath incline,

among auburn among whisks

of topless aspen,

I set my toes loose on this stone

peak above a peek of lake,

one thousand illusions of blue.

I bless my dormant

selves, my active cells,

a perpetuated enjoyment

of my own.

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