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Leaves / by Lloyd Schwartz /

Leaves / by Lloyd  Schwartz /                                            
1.Every October it becomes important, no, necessary
to see the leaves turning, to be surrounded
 by leaves turning; it’s not just the symbolism,
 to confront in the death of the year your death,
 one blazing farewell appearance, though the irony
  isn’t lost on you that nature is most seductive
 when it’s about to die, flaunting the dazzle of its
  incipient exit, an ending that at least so far
the effects of human progress (pollution, acid rain)
 have not yet frightened you enough to make you believe
 is real; that is, you know this ending is a deception
 because of course nature is always renewing itself—        
           the trees don’t die, they just pretend,
           go out in style, and return in style: a new style.                              
 
2.Is it deliberate how far they make you go
 especially if you live in the city to get far
enough away from home to see not just trees
  but only trees? The boring highways, roadsigns, high
  speeds, 10-axle trucks passing you as if they were
  in an even greater hurry than you to look at leaves
: so you drive in terror for literal hours and it looks
  like rain, or snow, but it’s probably just clouds
 (too cloudy to see any color?) and you wonder,
  given the poverty of your memory, which road had the
  most color last year, but it doesn’t matter since
you’re probably too late anyway, or too early—        
        whichever road you take will be the wrong one        
        and you’ve probably come all this way for nothing.                            
 
3.You’ll be driving along depressed when suddenly
a cloud will move and the sun will muscle through
 and ignite the hills. It may not last. Probably
won’t last. But for a moment the whole world
comes to. Wakes up. Proves it lives. It lives–
 red, yellow, orange, brown, russet, ocher, vermilion,
gold. Flame and rust. Flame and rust, the permutations
 of burning. You’re on fire. Your eyes are on fire. It won’t last, you don’t want it to last. You
can’t stand any more. But you don’t want it to stop.
 It’s what you’ve come for. It’s what you’ll
come back for. It won’t stay with you, but you’ll      
          remember that it felt like nothing else you’ve felt
          or something you’ve felt that also didn’t last.

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