shuddering, trembling, leaves poem by Helen Bach


up on the Aspen Autumn’s harvest
see leaves flutter green then gold
dancing like the wind
the potted petunia
in the shackled down house
suffers less from lack of water…
awakes the human softly dreaming
who fetches water, pours it freely
into the roots of our own making
pulls from pages of a poet
“I’ll play God if you’ll play God.”
the game is a matter of our scruples
now is a good time
“scruples or non?”
and did i hear you say
yesterday down on the delta
along about dawn
the roses may return?