GOLDEN RAIN

 

by Suzanne Zahr

With a rustle,

With a creak,

The wind sweeps through

The shaking shrub.

Swirls playfully,

And worries the tree,

Like a child bouncing on granny’s knee.

A few golden leaves flutter,

And fall to the floor,

Like old grey hairs,

From an old man’s scalp.

The wind tugs off a few more,

And picks them up tenderly,

So that they, the dead,

Can come and dance

Among the folds of Autumn’s lively dresses.

The leaves swoop through the air,

All through the day,

Tremble with the wind’s giggles.

Jump with the wind’s breath.

Until, slowly,

Slowly the gold medallion sets,

And the wind settles down to sleep.

And so, the leaves,

Like toys forgotten by a toddler,

Drift, slowly, slowly,

From the golden treetops,

In a whirlpool of treasure,

Like a golden shower,

Golden, rain,

Golden.

Melancholy.

Dead.

And so the golden rain

Lays, in puddles of sorrow,

Forgotten, and lost.

And so,

The cycle repeats,

Until the tree’s

Golden cloak

Has entirely unravelled on the floor,

And the wind no longer toys with its threads.

(Emma Dimitrova,  my 12 years old  daughter, 14/11/20)