October is a time for memories, and
a time of scents and colors.
I remember the yard of my childhood home,
covered with fallen leaves, and how I would
walk slowly through them, crunching
them underfoot or kicking them into the air
on my way to the woods.
The scent of fall, an indescribable smell
that is pure pleasure when you catch a whiff
on the wind, a mixture of earthiness
and sun and cool and change.
When I became a mother, I had a youngest child.
When he was a young teenager we rarely spoke.
I longed to show him I loved him in a way that
he could not rebuff, so I went out into the yard
and searched for some perfect fall leaves.
They couldn’t have a dark mark or a hole,
their color had to be interesting or bright.
It was very difficult to find ones that were worthy
to be brought in and placed before him,
like a bouquet of care, their stems bold and
leaves supple. I found some that I deemed
beautiful. One had yellow with some green
still on it, a lovely combination, one was blood
red and perfect, one was orange like the sunset.
I handed them to him like a bouquet.
He mumbled a thanks and left them on his desk.
The next day the leaves were brittle and ugly and
I threw them away, feeling foolish. They weren’t
a bouquet at all, just some dead leaves.
But love being what it is, I continued the search,
as much for me as for him, probably more. Maybe I thought
if I could find a leaf beautiful enough it would
erase all the animosity between us.
And I did this the next year in October, too.
And I may have done this the following year, too,
but I can’t remember. But I would place the leaves
before him and tell him I loved him.
Many years later, when he was a father and things were good between us,
like a strong bridge woven of love had been built between us,
or maybe it was always there, just hidden behind the mists of rough waters,
and we couldn’t see it,
I asked him if he remembered when
I used to bring him leaves.
He said, Of course I do. And we both paused.
And then we didn’t say anything more on the subject.
Copyright ©2025 Lisa Paul
Dora from Dreams from a Pilgrimage, our lovely host at dVerse, challenges us:
What I’d like you to do for this week’s poetics is simply write a poem about what October means to you.
A Little Bit of Everything, With Love 