In The Beginning Were Leaves
September 25, 2025
A poem by Michael Hawkes
On a quiet morning
The air is still and little stirs
Except the squirrels twitching
And the pairing of the birds,
I sit silent in a golden shower
And imagine leaves as words.
It’s quiet enough to hear the sound
That leaves make when they land.
The ground and everything around
Is blanketed with spoken words.
A latent library, patently,
Languishing, expectantly,
Each curled crisp cipher
A key character in the mystery.
Each icon wafting from above
Is in accordance with the next,
Each radiant with meaning
Contributing to the text
To form a deep deposit
Of fundamental truths
That tell of universal cycles
Of which tree leaves are the proofs.
Now, as I shuffle through them
My movement leaves a wake…
A sussurating in the silence
Perhaps a prayer for someone’s sake.
27/10/22
Feature image: Valentin S – Pexels
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[/col][col size=”10″]Michael Hawkes, a prolific poet, wrote an average of five poems every week. As a retired West Coast fisherman, Hawkes found a new passion in poetry later in life. His experience as a survivor of numerous conflicts influenced his perspective and provided rich material for his verses.
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