David Given Schwarm

his is this leaf
fallen–like Gandhi

and the blissful mother
with the mute husband
calling other men dad.

Outside the pool gate
still counting the
out breath, slowly.

Brown brittle chaste
and cold on the sidewalk.

The leaf does not
create its own
enthusiasm, it is
shaken by the wind.

I am not the leaf–
biodegradable martyr
of the ecosystem.

Stirred by ants
mistaken by
Candi at dawn.

A crack in the
Sidewalk–the
perfect escape.

The leaf refers to
the tree in ways
that I cannot, even
under better light.

Stored forever in
memory awake.