Only A Leaf

by Patrick Hayes

Sometimes I wonder, as I walk the path
Under the tall, fluttering cottonwoods,
From class to class, why I always walk
Alone. Silly thoughts, perhaps, especially
When the days have grown cool and the
Breezes feel so refreshing, before the sun
Goes down. But I see you, walking with
Two or three friends, men, talking softly
To them, smiling, laughing;and you don't
Talk to me. I used to nod and smile, myself,
As we passed, by you never acknowledged
So I ceased; do you even remember me?
Do you remember walking outside of
Hubbard Hall on that windy autumn
Afternoon, when we stopped and talked
For a few minutes? Or weeks later, in
The very heart of winter, the coldest
Day of the year, when we met again
And you were shivering, both of us
Hurrying about our errands?
It hurts a little, to be forgotten.
But why, why should you remember me?
I am not a bright light or a loud voice;
I am only a little leaf that trembles on the
Wind, to be noticed for a moment,
To be held in the hand and admired
For its lovely colors, the fineness of its veins,
And then dropped again, since it is,
After all, only a leaf, and I am not fine
Or lovely. No, my curse is to remember
Everything, yet to forget that few others
Seem to remember this way, names and
Faces and numbers from years past
I can still call up at an instant,
Things that have no meaning for
Anyone else, moments I cherish and
Fondly recall that have been forgotten
By everyone because they meant
Nothing, days spent playing in the garage
On Dellrose Street, rummaging through
The assorted detritus of my father's
Life, hours wiled away alone there in
The dust, sneezing and rubbing my eyes,
But happy because here was my little
Fortress from the world, my little
Kingdom where none intruded; I built,
There, I nailed, and hammered, I sewed,
And taped, until the day when we were
Suddenly whisked away to five years of
Living in cheap motels. The people who
Came after me probably took all that I'd
Left there and threw it away as so much
Garbage;and for them, what else could
It have been? For me, it was a treasure.
That was twenty-five years ago, and I
Still dream about the things I could have
Made, had I been given a few more weeks
Or months in that dark little place.
Maybe that's my failing, that I never stop
Dreaming about worlds that have disappeared,
Worlds that can never be again.
Life is different now; sometimes I think I was
Better then for being ignorant and foolish,
For being a child. It is better to be a foolish
Child who dreams than a foolish man who
Never forgets the dream.
The same child who grew up, and now
Gets hurt when his brief friendly notes go
Unnoticed, when he smiles and no one
Sees it, when he walks to the parking
Lot wrapped in his thoughts and no one
Stops him to ever say hello.
And maybe he is a fool for that.
I used to revel in the silence and
Solitude, in being one little leaf
Alone in a whirlwind of others;
But now it feels empty, somehow,
It feels incomplete and bitter.
But that I am: only a leaf
Brittle and fragile with the season's
Change, one of a million who look
The same, who all fall down and wait
For the crushing foot, or the snow to
Cover us over until spring comes
And we are gone.

The Author

Patrick Hayes is from Wichita, Kansas where he has lived all his life, and is studying computer science and geology after a long hiatus from school. He works part time as a webmaster and Braille transcription student at the Kansas Braille Transcription Institute. His hobbies include reading (especially fantasy, science, and ancient history), writing, webdesign, and chatting online for extended periods.