For the 49.6%
After the election
the rain falling
from the gray
blanket overhead
is knocking loose
the last resistant
stubborn leaves
who’d insisted on seeing
the winter through,
determined only that
next spring’s new
—and nothing else!—
should bid them
drop to join
the soilmakers
at their roots.
But one by one
they succumb
to the pelting—
stems slippery,
grip gone numb,
the heartache
of so many nodes
around them empty
where once hung
a boisterous crowd,
where once hummed
the sugar machinery,
eager visions
caught in sunlight,
evening flutter-song
softening each
return of night.
I watch one drop,
alight as a sigh—
a little boat tossed
on an unsettled sea—
and disappear
behind the
waving banners
of the waiting
western sword fern.
Then another
in its turn.
And now another.
Each resigned.
Each alone.
A woodfull of dreamers
slowly draining
into the gravid mulch below.