In Defense of Falling Leaves

I blame all murders on the autumn,
a yearly example of blameworthy trees
breaking leaves from limbs, killing them
with color. Fascinating how we accept death
when it’s beautiful. The fall flushes logic
from our brains as if we’d swallowed a fire
hose, readies our empty heads to accept
October’s funerals as dismissible demise.
The many rakes that scratch leaves into
burnable piles are accomplices, instruments
that do not forbear collusion in the hands
of humans. They say these leaves go back
to earth to nourish another life, the new
upon old trees, but innocent leaves pay
the price of perpetuality.

Wind is a culprit, too. It grabs foliage
by their stems, breaks them from branches
as surely as a dangerous hand breaks a neck.
It is the season of natural violence.
October is a maniacal assassin, homicide,
its specialty. It is a humiliating mistake
to pay homage to a time when billions of
deaths break loose, lose permanence
beneath a hard-blue sky. Fate commits
the crime without bloodshed, dresses victims
in chromatic vestments to fool us into believing
to kill is necessary this time of year.

Lost to the Fog

The funeral amounted to a small affair,
a gathering of family and friends huddled
beneath a gray sky. I delivered a eulogy,
voice trembling as I spoke about her
kindness and the way her eyes crinkled
at the corners when she smiled.

Afterwards, at the house she’d shared
with me for 37 years, silence deafened.
I wandered through rooms, each one
imbued with her presence, the worn
recliner from which she watched television
without being able to follow a narrative,
her light-blue sweater hanging from the back
of a kitchen chair, the wooden spice rack
she so cleverly placed in the corner
on the sink counter when I couldn’t
figure out where it should go. Grief,
a heavy cloak, settled upon me, its weight
suffocating.

The world outside continued its relentless
movement, oblivious to the gaping hole
ripped in my life. Within the walls of this
quiet house, time froze in a moment
of profound loss, a testament to the bond
with Aunt Liz that even Alzheimer’s
couldn’t erase.

R. Nikolas Macioci earned a PhD from The Ohio State University, taught for Columbus City Schools for thirty years.  OCTELA, the Ohio Council of Teachers of English, named Nik Macioci the best secondary English teacher in the state of Ohio. Nik is the author of twenty-three books. He was twice nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, nominated five times for a Pushcart Prize, and twice for a Best of the Net award.