What tis’ the sound, a soft crackle behind.
I shudder and twist, to see its working mind.
A sound soft and sharp, must be of some form—
A Being lurking, with ill intent inside.
Quizzing my sight, rolling my eyes,
Hunting for its home.
Its source—alive! I must be forthright!
As my eyes began to comb.
Panning, perusing, obsessing, at loosing,
Sight of soft crackle, strange tune.
Must it be possum, slowly bounding near,
Or indulgent mouse, chatting round room.
All asleep except these felons
Though I glimpse none, hoping too soon.
Armed with broom, I lumber round,
With keen eyes in corners unseen.
No more crackle—just my warm breath,
Accompany this quiet scene.
Two rounds before collapsing down.
Falling into thoughtless slumber,
With hopes of hearing odd tune,
To wake me like thunder.
Time had passed, tis’ the clock’s opinion.
Waking, turning toward soft light.
To see Leaf gently fall—
Soft crackle finally in sight.
It’s aged surface, danced to slow tune.
Spinning and swooping,
Reaching its Ground not too soon.
Like young bird from nest, it left.
Yet stead of life, it fell to death
Releasing stale smell—
The sound of dying breath.
How many crackles will we hear?
Our lives measured by gentle deaths.
How will we fall or leave Thy nest?
When released from stem.
Time measured by death.
A passing moment; A passing breath.
Leaves die, and Life Leaves.
Leaves die, yet Life Breaths.
Leaves die, and so will I.
Leaving Life, I grieve not.
I hope only to Leave
in such manner.
That unmeasured grace of time
Which Life Leaves.
Photo by Simon Matzinger.