In the tiny petal of a tiny flower That grew from a tiny pod Is the miracle and mystery Of all creation and God

THE LAST LEAF by FOTESS A woman walks through a forest of tall trees. A cool breeze is blowing as the summer comes to a close. The trees begin to shiver as a squirrel scurries through on a hunt for the bountiful harvest from the nut trees. A single leaf falls. The woman raises her eyes skyward, to learn the source of the falling leaf, the largest she has ever seen. She is delighted to discover it is from a rare and beautiful native, the Bigleaf Magnolia. Suddenly, something else catches her eye. As she paused, looking up at the tree, Lucille realized that it was much colder than it had been when she parked the truck at the trailhead. Looking west she could see thick grey clouds flying ahead of the wind. "I better head back and check on the animals," The woman said to herself. As she turned and headed back down the trail, an Elvish figure stepped away from the tree, smiled, and nodded his head. For several seconds, she screamed in awesome fear. Then a quiet, comforting peace consumed her in to a devoted trance. She could not speak. She could not move. Lucille’s paralyzed body fell to the soft earth. The short, rather ugly, non-human like being approached her. He stooped down on to his knees, ever so close to her now frail body. She saw his ears were not ears but luscious golden veined, red leaves. She smiled. His distorted fingers caringly closed her eyes and then he took her hands in to his. Butterflies in a myriad of colors flutter past Lucille's frail body. Enchanting objects flying around like little pixies. Lucille gently reopens her eyes to a magical forest. Dancing pink magical mushrooms wander this forest in very operatic voices. Where am I, she cries?? A faint cackle taunts her in the distance. She frantically looks down and remembers nothing but that mysterious single leaf. Lucille looks around to the new magical world she has found herself in.There are flowers of all different colors,fairies flying to and fro and all of a sudden she realizes she is a fairy,with wings and all of the mixed hues of a leaf colors in autumn!!! But she wants to go home to her animals and has a feeling that mysterious leaf is her only link to finding her way home.but how can she find the leaf? The leaves she sees here are the beautiful colors of autumn.The mysterious leaf was green!! Lucille slumped down in a slough of despair. "Oh, what to do, what to do," she cried. "Not a fairy! I don't even know how to fly - nor do I want to learn! I want to go home!" She stood up and looked around at the colorful landscape and all the fluttering, singing beings. "This is all very pretty, albeit a bit garish. But pretty as it is, it is still just a bit creepy. These pink mushrooms are really getting on my nerves." She wandered a few paces down the path. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw what appeared to be a moving forest! As it came closer, she saw it was a whole group of the little Elvish figures, chanting " Where is the Last Leaf?" over and over. In addition to ears that looked like leaves, their bodies looked barky, with knot holes, and their arms were very twiggy. "Gee," thought Lucille, "if I find the Last Leaf for them, maybe they'll tell me how to get out of here!" As the chanting of the Elvish figures grew louder Lucille trembled. What to do, stay and talk to them or run and hide. Although she wanted to hide she deceided to stay as they might know how she can find her way home. Soon they circled around Lucille chanting "where is the last leaf." Lucille asked," can you please help me find my way home." "No," said the biggest and angriest creature, we want the last leaf. "Why are you looking for the last leaf ," asked Lucille. The smallest one stepped forward and said," Our mother, Mrs. Maganolia said we cannot sleep until the last leaf falls and we are getting very tired as we have been swaying in the wind since last spring. Just then the large angry creature said, "I bet she is hiding the last leaf, lets go get her." Lucille tries to turn away as the largest creature approaches, but finds it difficult to move. Pain knifes through her skull as the fading light penetrates the twin slits of her eyelids and her vision is clouded in gouts of red fog. She puts her hand to her head and it comes away sticky. As she strives for lucidity, warm breath bathes her cheek and she hears snuffling. A gray horse is standing above her just on the other side of a fence she had not noticed earlier. Fully awake now, Lucille realizes that she is lying on the ground and begins to assess the damage. On her forehead a large bloody lump throbs with every heartbeat, but nothing seems broken. Near her foot a twisted root tells the story of her fall even if she can't recall the accident. Struggling to get up, she remembers the menacing creatures from her unconscious fantasy and chides herself for her vivid imagination. Brushing away twigs and leaves clinging to her clothes, she makes her way back to the truck, again passing the Bigleaf Magnolia. It is bare. "Was there one large leaf there before, one that fell?", she asks herself as she climbs into the driver's seat. Her eyes scan the forest's edge as she tries to reconcile her memory of trees just beginning their transition from summer to fall with the reality of the nearly leafless spectacle before her. Everything about her adventure is becoming a little hazy as she tries to piece together the afternoon's events. On the drive home she decides to feed the animals quickly and drive to the ER to be checked for concussion. When she slides gingerly out of the truck so as not to reawaken the pain in her head, she does not notice the debris that falls from her hair. Green, perfect, vibrant and pulsing with life, it is the last leaf. the end

"Blow, Bugle, Blow" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

Has this discussion meant anything Frieda in whatever sense - especially if you've enjoyed it?Oh absolutely, Jan! I'm drawn to poetry discussions...well, I must be because I'm always sticking my fat head in and exposing my ignorance. Truth is I love the idea of poetry, but I am less enchanted with most poems, themselves. But occasionally I discover a new one that smacks me up the side of my head -- such as "Cold Knap Lake" at Anyanka's link above -- and it's all worth it. I may even develop a liking for Mary Oliver. :-) Now, the Keats: I seem to relate better to pre-20th century poets. I'm not sure if it's the quaint language (in the sense of being marked by beauty and elegance) or the imagery that I like best. Some 20th-century poets (don't know yet about the 21st-century ones) can pull off the feat and send me into "the light of other times" that I like best. Here's one that does just that: Her Kind I have gone out, a possessed witch, haunting the black air, braver at night; dreaming evil, I have done my hitch over the plain houses, light by light: lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind. A woman like that is not a woman, quite. I have been her kind. I have found the warm caves in the woods, filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves, closets, silks, innumerable goods; fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves: whining, rearranging the disaligned. A woman like that is misunderstood. I have been her kind. I have ridden in your cart, driver, waved my nude arms at villages going by, learning the last bright routes, survivor where your flames still bite my thigh and my ribs crack where your wheels wind. A woman like that is not ashamed to die. I have been her kind. -- Anne Sexton I would give credit if I could to whoever introduced me to this poem -- I think it was in a thread such as this one and it may have been you, Jan.