\nSamuel Wainwright burns off his leaves.<\/span>
\nHe claims each one’s a page in the year,<\/span>
\nProphecy unfurling as they turn to light ash.<\/span><\/p>\n
The peeking neighbor children know their leaves don’t do that.<\/span><\/p>\n Sam’s solemn this year as he tends the burn-pile–<\/span> I bring him mulled cider as a tribute, a pledge.<\/span><\/p>\n “A hard year,” he says, adding a new handful,<\/span> “We’ll have to laugh harder when we get to,” I say.<\/span><\/p>\n “Remember we’ll cry later, to not be too shocked.”<\/span> “If you didn’t, you’d worry all year for us, Sam.”<\/span><\/p>\n He takes a sip, starts to mutter again.<\/span> Something in him, and leaves, looks out for us.<\/span><\/p>\n I can stand years like this with that thought in my head.<\/span>
\nBecause of the wind he’s on the front lawn.<\/span>
\nAs he reads the smoke-stories, he mutters them softly<\/span>
\n–A stranger could tell that it isn’t good news.<\/span><\/p>\n
\n“Of hard knocks, surprises, and very few laughs.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/span>
\nI can’t read the smoke-script of old growth on fire<\/span>
\nBut it almost looks jagged, because of his words.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nI blink as the sooty wind stings my eyes.<\/span>
\n“Why do I bother?” he demands of the flame-tongues.<\/span>
\n“When it’s never much help to know life is hard?”<\/span><\/p>\n
\nI just watch his expression, his eyes behind glasses,<\/span>
\nAnd am grateful for autumn and springtime and him–<\/span>
\nThe way his sharp knuckles are clenching the handle.<\/span><\/p>\n
\nWe can burn off the last year, be braced for the next.<\/span><\/p>\n
![\"\u00c2\u00a9](\"http:\/\/www.polutexni.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2013\/09\/burning-leaves.jpg\")
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