the enso

"Leaves Turning" by marlowe

the poem

While our hair grays, your leaves blush,
turning redder by the day, hanging onto branches
that no longer support you. With each strident gust
Old Man Winter blows through your boughs,
another dozen leaves fall to their deaths,
curling with rigor mortis before the browning begins,
catching between yellowed blades of grass that dream
of a spring reprise. For you, there is no such thing.
You were destined to give up all of your children,
and prepared for separation at the first frost.
Bare, you will stand witness to the cruelty
these seasons can wrought, until the snow
caresses your limbs like a long-lost lover.

the enso

"A Dove's First Home" by marlowe

the poem

We earn our first breath by struggle
— no pain, no gain, they say —
but what of it, this zero-sum game?
The only evidence is this empty shell, barren,
and the jagged edge where you pecked
your way to freedom from
this womb, like an ancient cave dweller,
its history already forgotten, wanting
nothing more than life itself.
Perhaps there is nothing more powerful
than this urge to breathe in open spaces.

The shell remained untouched for days,
no longer needed since a new struggle was found.
I stepped around this artifact each morning,
honoring its sacredness, noting
the thin membrane, the mortal coil now a shriveled root
no longer required to ground you.
Yes, what of it? I imagine
you have doubled in size,
often obey your parents, and will
someday return to this suburban hedge,
calculating what will be required to continue.