Fallen Leaves

For Jacob

He finds the greenest in the ditch, strays ofSouthern oak, late crazing of the wind, And dives headlong into the fray of mud, Comes spitting, laughing, pulls me after him, And running breakneck through the garden, And counting hawks on the drive to Memphis. I’ve read: “in my end is my beginning,”So, I rise to silence. I’ve learned to pray. I sometimes forget the week or the day. But I wait for the leaves to turn, hopingTo see wild geese flying home in the fall. How cold the patter of November rain, How your loving voice welcomes me again, How long the years have gone, not gone at all.

_Born and raised in Texas, Casey Morris studied literature, philosophy, and ancient Greek at St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland. He loves reading and writing about literature, especially old and new poetry. He is also a fan of historical fiction, documentaries, and shoegaze. Casey is a Staff Writer at Decadent Serpent, often analysing and dissecting great poetry. You can read his work here.
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