THE CLERESTORY OF LEAVES
We drive to your special education
under an arch of maples, half green,
half turned to gold,
the dark branches bold as the ribs
of a great cathedral, flying buttresses
that bend the light.
You haven't changed in the last
developmentally delayed, mildly
school a struggle to stay in your
say the beginnings of words,
point to colors and shapes.
While you wrestle with scissors,
daub with paste, I sit in the hallway,
trying to write, turn straw into
When our two hours are spent,
we drive back up the hill toward
see the stand of mixed hardwoods
in full conflagration: red-gold,
blazing against the cobalt sky.
The architect who made these trees
was sleeping when he made this boy.
And my heart, like the leaves, burns
© by Barbara Crooker