Sabrina L’Heureux
Contributed by Peg Caliendo
I
In this forest, the deserted path
waits for snow. For now,
it is littered with leaves like gold
coins marking the way home. More
permanent than breadcrumbs, if only
you would follow.
II
I find them fluttering
like love-notes on the front seat,
beneath the steering wheel,
in the cracks of the glove compartment.
Hours earlier, the open sunroof
on a prairie sky day,
blue and yellow horizons,
seemed a good idea.
III
You toss them in the air,
smile as I take your picture,
and you are a goddess
in this Northern forest, a bright treasure
in the soon barren landscape.
And when I can’t snap the shutter
in time, I want to grasp your shoulders,
your waist, your hair, and say
there, stay
so I can memorize your hands
unfurling golden fall, hips turned
toward me like a kiss
and the leaves landing,
like clumsy hands,
in your hair,
at your feet.
IV
Remember the year
autumn never came at all.
The aspen leaves trembling
green then gone,
brushed under a skirt of snow.
No time for fall,
when winter sweeps in so fast,
settles down knee deep,
heels dug in to stubborn ground.
I remember how we tried
to make warmth that year,
the aspen chopped to kindle a fire—
and you, knitting our hope-
chest full. Even now,
I recognize the signs.