Some sparse yellow leaves cleave from their rachis & depart the black locust in late summer wind. The old tree leans some, its hollowed trunk still wrapped in twisted rope bark, giving notice for no reason that it may not be so hard to yield on that certain day—with or without us— when the leisure of the breeze-borne leaves prevails. But I see the others still green, leaflets really, clinging fast in odd-pinnate clutches, the oval pairs fanning me from above, a pharaoh taking pleasure but sensing that all the industry & invention & the wickedness of the world will move easily through a breeze on the right day at the right time & the winds will carry on & the tree I love will know winter again & in its time will fall beside me in the clay-bound soil that starves its skirring yellow leaves. Kevin Swanwick, August 2025
Yellow leaves
Some sparse yellow leaves cleave from their rachis & depart the black locust in late summer wind. The old tree leans some, its hollowed trunk still wrapped in twisted rope bark, giving notice for no reason that it may not be so hard to yield on that certain day—with or without us— when the leisure of the breeze-borne leaves prevails. But I see the others still green, leaflets really, clinging fast in odd-pinnate clutches, the oval pairs fanning me from above, a pharaoh taking pleasure but sensing that all the industry & invention & the wickedness of the world will move easily through a breeze on the right day at the right time & the winds will carry on & the tree I love will know winter again & in its time will fall beside me in the clay-bound soil that starves its skirring yellow leaves. Kevin Swanwick, August 2025