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Molecules of Paint (Free verse) by Dovina
As summer ends and chill descends,
across the valley of the Cumberland,
October woods of Tennessee
display their dying colors,
paints upon a palette,
oils for another scene.
Poplar, hickory, locust, maple,
don their shades of yellow;
while the oaks grow russet, red and crimson.
Artistes of sassafras and sweetgum
flash with shades of orange, yellow,
brown and red,
as if, not having ever died,
they search like children for the way.
From beneath the trees,
each minute leaf, a spec of color,
contributes to the forest hue,
like a molecule of paint.
In summerâs heat it gave its produce,
strength to father tree.
Now, with the planetâs lean to north,
it feels the days grow short.
Perhaps with sadness, it resignly knows
the work that put it here is done.
Just a final color show,
and then itâs time to go.
Soon Iâll see the vein-like patterns,
cold and firm, of leafless trees,
the strengths of leaves transferred
to them, to height, to weight and wood,
while tissue-thin remains decay
like blueprints or like sketches.
Faint lines transect the withered leaf
where fluids carried nutrients
to chlorophyll and sun,
then hauled the workersâ product
for the good of one great whole.
A leaf records a picture, loosely drawn,
of wood from which it falls,
or plans from which
a tree is made;
I canât precisely say.
This one underneath my shoe
mixes, as by artistâs brush,
with other paint for something new.
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