Brooke Gale LouvieR

I walk, as I do, before the sun goes to bed

it happens early these days

despite it being hot enough to sweat

I sit on a hill facing some trees

I pick up a leaf dead and nearly colorless

and crinkle it in my fingers

I laugh for no reason

other than life being funny

then it comes as a rush

torrents of joy through my body

and I see above myself

a bird watching this being

alone on a hill shaking with giggles

I wonder if maybe I am

a child

ripe with newness

or a mad old woman who has seen

too much of the world

or maybe I am both

laughing and crunching leaves

enjoying the sound it makes

crazy and free and whole

feeling too young or too old

for my twenty-six-year-old skin

never getting “used to” being me

in all the coming and going

all the madness and beauty

and I stop laughing for a moment

and stare at the trees

so long they seem to shift

what’s left of their colors melding

their branches beckoning me

to join their yearly party of temporary death

and I concur with myself I must be crazy

and laugh a little more for effect

then I pause to catch up with

the narration in my head

and I realize

I am seeing again

and like the ruined leaf

dying a bit

so I may live a little more bravely

next spring