Leaves Poem by Morgan Michaels

High on a shelf in a box I found
(with others) , a book of old Hemingway tales.

Opening to one, I read the first line
'The hills across the Ebro were long and white.'

The tales in the book were old and dried
The leaves of the tales were dried and browned

Reading turned them to dirty confetti
that fell in bits that lost themselves in the rug.

I thought (fool thought) how Papa himself
might like the idea of the vanishing tale-

might like the way the reading of one
Turned the tale into bite-sized crumbs,

as if his tales, like the leaves of the trees
had a season to live, then disappeared,

forever- gone, all vanity,
and made in the rug, a 'dirty confetti snow.'

But the tale was tense and tersely told,
So I plowed on through to the very close

Powerless to quit, not minding it
if soon the snow should reach my knees.