Ode to Leaves from Issue 90
Sidewalk strewn after wind and rain,
its cement stenciled with leaves,
stains that will last beyond the next
storm and the next, color-bearing juices
leaching out, last hurrahs as the leaves
exit the world under footsteps and sun
into skeletons of veins that crumble
to dust, a little mulch for next year’s
leaves that will look exactly the same—
ovate, cordate, pinnate, spear-shaped,
sword-shaped, rhomboid, lobed—
no generation leaving anything behind,
nothing learned, nothing written down
but buds for next year’s crop
to pilfer the sun, do the hard work
of adding pith to core inside the cork.
Their world is pure—never a runoff
for high office, top leaf in town,
no special deals for oak or maple,
nothing under the table, no hanky-panky
in the canopy, just birch to birch,
ash to ash. Simple: leaves like clouds
hanging around, giving shade, sometimes
billowing out, sometimes raining down.
Ode to a Martini from Issue 90
…the only American invention
as perfect as the sonnet
—H.L. Mencken
In training, eight of us, the day before
National Martini Day, already
ruddy from white wine, watch the maestro pour
a splash of Scotch, flavor the rocks, steady
his hand, restrain the ice, drain the pitcher,
then drizzle the gin. We debate how dry
to craft it, how close vermouth’s encounter
should be. Just pass the uncapped bottle by,
says one. We settle on a drop apiece,
agree to stir, not shake, drink from the same
giant goblet, make the seeming caprice
a serious toast to friendship, not a game,
no trifling lark, but something well beyond—
we let this crisp concoction build a bond.
