“Leaf Fall” by Carolyn Martin, published in Splitting Open the World, released in March 2025, has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. To choose our nominees this year was especially challenging, for we published 31 books, including 1,080 poems in total. Among all of these amazing and moving poems, this poem continues to be one of my favorites.
Every year, Robert and I each have a love/hate relationship with leaves littering our lawn and walkway. This poem not only reframes the splendor of their magnificent color and our relationship with our neighbors, but turns this deciduous routine into gratitude for life’s slow doling out of both triumph and tragedy alike.
Please enjoy the poem, and feel free to leave a comment.
Leaf Fall
by Carolyn Martin
Late autumn and the game rages on.
Six weeks of blowing/raking/recycling
in between foggy frost and rain.
Neighbors tease about whose belong to whom—
cherry/maple/myrtle/star magnolia—
and groan at Nature’s outside joke:
as soon as lawns are clear, leaf-devils swirl
dervishly around our cul-de-sac.
We call timeout and plan to reconvene
tomorrow if the sun breaks free.
Which makes me wonder: what if
leaves fell in unison? We could pick
a Saturday before football games kick off,
and gear up to tackle one morning’s work
to shut the season down. We’d bench
memories of grudges and gripes and cheer
each other on with splashes of camaraderie.
But … a second thought: Nature may be wise
with her leaf-by-leaf strategy.
What if grief came all at once?
Or failure, love, success, crinkled skin?
What if, in one determined day,
we faced decades of experience?
It’s the doling out that makes life bearable.
This afternoon, after I store my rake and gloves,
I intend to chat with my star magnolia tree.
Branches of pussy willows are blooming
beneath her dome of half-green leaves.
I’ll thank her for nudging me off the couch
when her yellows sprinted down the street
and ask if she can estimate
when the thousands holding on will fall.
I want to strategize how to say good-bye
before we lock our doors, turn our lights
inside out, and hibernate until
buds argue their way into early spring.
from Splitting Open the World by Carolyn Martin (The Poetry Box, 2025)
nominated for The Pushcart Prize by Shawn Aveningo Sanders, editor/publisher
Leave a Reply