Dry Leaves Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

All but a few dry
leaves have
dropped to earth's
floor, swept

and raked
by brooms of wind
and the prongs
of gale and storm.

Some dry leaves
grab their greenness
with hands of crab,
their gleaming mint
and harlequin fading,

but they still glue
themselves to leaves'
veins and arteries

pumping green blood
into flesh and hairs,

leaves harvesting
patches and specks
for a gold hue

that doesn't buy
back their green vest
lost to sun and storm.

(ii)

Some emerald leaves
lose their green
blood, but still stick
stick to a melting green

stuck to leaves
swinging from petioles,
hands stapled
to green splashes

of pasted and sprayed
green skin
rubber-stamped
on lime leaves to roar

back into their
hunter and forest
glittering green shirts.

(iii)

For how long
will dry leaves keep
their green attire
amid those losing

steam and dropping
dead on a taupe
earth floor spinning
the beginning

and the closure
of life, as some green
leaves spray
no wrinkles of withering,

when storms
blow into trumpets
and a stormy sun
burns into gray

ashes tree trunks
tossing them
onto graphite clouds
to dress them
with crocodile barks.

(iv)

Withered leaves
still gripping
their deep green
undergarments
and tank tops

to keep their teal
and viridian blood,
there's time,

when wrinkles grind
age into the gold
hue mined from earth's
bottom floor

pulling back all
dry leaves, as they lose
their grip and fall
down with death's bang.