Touching the Leaf Mold

Touching the Leaf Mold He did this as a boy, probing the detritus of fall, The crumpled leaves, maple and oak, watching Sow bugs and earwigs and beetles scuttle Quick from the light. The humus, cool, grainy, Clung and he caught the faint aroma of rot, A not unpleasant, stringent nipping in his nose. This patch of ground was webbed with snail trails, Laced with white etching of fungus and threads Of pale roots and flakes of brown bark, fragments Of lichen and tiny emerald clumps of moss. Why did he stop his last lawn mowing and Fall on hands and knees and putter among Creatures and chemistries he could not know? What could his hands decipher, down in the waste Of summer's mad growth? There were crescents of black Under his nails. He would work on, faithful To his weekend chores. Now, hands on his mower, He saw his breath bloom and fade in moist clouds. That voice asked, "What? What is it?" The earth turned. Trees kept a cold repose. He stood waiting, his bones Listening, listening hard in the muted dusk. -Mark DeFoe 63 ...