DAVID DODD LEE

 

Lighter than Air

Id been moving hating it
carrying boxes of books
from the trunk of my car and into the basement
when, for no reason other than my suddenly noticing it was spring,
I sat on the lawn
and opened a book of poems
I had bought but never bothered to read.
Then a large oak leaf,
which had held on through blizzards and rain,
let go
and floated overhead, causing a shadow
to cross the white page
like a bird flying by
before skidding on curled points
several feet across the asphalt driveway.
For a few short seconds
I couldnt decipher what had entered the world of the poem.
Id been thinking bird,
but had just read the word "table,"
and what I saw was neither
but all,
a leaf on its wingtips skittering to a trembling halt
in the sunshine
like a small piece of furniture.
I closed the book Id been reading,
poems written by a woman from Murphysboro,
Illinois, Id never met. The leaf
bucked on its tapered legs,
clicking a little,
lighter than air which was also the name of the womans book
the pages of which came alive
in my hands, although Id remained perfectly still
and could detect no breeze.