I admit to having certain quirks, as I am sure all people have, which may be considered slightly odd. However, these quirks are a large part of what makes me who I am, so over time I have chosen to embrace them. The problem is that I sometimes forget that these quirks can be observed by others, and these others do not always have a familiar enough acquaintence to overlook my oddities. In short, over the course of my life, I have gotten more than my share of strange looks. Recently, one of these looks of bewilderment was so pronounced as to inspire poetry:
The Maple Leaf
You think me a silly fellow,
Don't you?
As you pass me by.
Maybe I am...
No doubt I look it,
Clutching this maple leaf as I am
I hold it like
A very young girl enraptured by a dandelion,
Loving its soft yellow,
Caring not that it's a weed.
You may think a leaf a trifle--
An unimportant little thing--
But tell me,
Have you ever held one tenderly?
As you would a woman's hand?
Compassionately stroked the smooth green skin?
Letting it fold around your fingers--
Like a lady's delicacy?
There is more gentility in one maple leaf
Than can be found in a thousand men.
But fair as it is,
A leaf is fragile,
And taking it between your fingers--
You would see it
For what it is:
Just a membrane stretched between veins,
Little more than dust--
As easily torn as tossed aside,
And in the this
The leaf would prove a treasure,
For that is most valuable
Which is most difficult to keep.
So laugh,
If you like,
Scoff--
At the man,
The grown boy,
Holding a leaf as he walks.
But I hold the stories of life and love in my hand--
I hold the story of death.
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