One time, about half a century ago,
my best friend read me a poem
that her secret lover, a strong, sensitive man,
had penned for her. They had walked together,
she said, in the autumn woods earlier in the day.
I remember being astonished at the poignant
beauty of the words. The closing line,
“Aren’t oak leaves beautiful?” stuck with me
long after I’d forgotten the rest, except
for a mention of the Taj Mahal at its beginning.
Years later, I asked my friend if she,
by any chance, still had a copy of the piece.
She didn’t. But it doesn’t matter.
The feel of it returns to me every year
when oak leaves cover the ground.
Yesterday I thought of my friend
with affection as I walked through
heaps of newly fallen leaves, and I smiled
at one red oak leaf, the sun shining through it
as if it were a stained glass window.
She was like that, too, glowing,
letting the light pour through
her deep rich colors. She passed away,
I learned when I returned from my walk.
So tonight I wrote this poem for her.
I’ll think of you often, my friend, especially
in autumn, when the beautiful oak leaves fall.