Leaves from three maples and a tulip tree
washed over our lawn, red-to-dead sea deep.
With rakes as oars we reached a tidal wave
and dove into the center of the rise.
What a splash we made
drowning in leaves and laughter,
riding the waves until
the sea parted and we were scattered.
Years later the tidal wave, a fossil sea
beneath a man-made lake, is a mere wrinkle
of water where my face dissolves
into the leaves of a solitary oak.
As the late October sun hones
into a single blade of light,
it cuts across the water
and, in the shade of the bank,
shatters the outline of my head.
A stab of recognition.
In the deep rise a darker self
takes shape in the stillness.
Leaves like words fall from my mouth.
My arms outstretched to greet them,
I watch us melt together
as we touch the shore.
Copyright 2006 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.