Before the leaves fell that Fall,
their colors they unveiled,
once masked by dominance,
illusions called green, obscuring all the others;

just as I prepared to leave you all,
you saw me in full spectrum


Before they fall, we see potentials.
After they're gone we mourn
that we didn't take more time
to celebrate them,
the missing, remaining
in our bodies' memories

and yet we do not realize
through caucasian, tanned,
midnight, reddened, sun drenched,
flesh
that underneath whatever hue is dominant,
presenting as reality,
we, like the leaves,
are comprised of every race and creed
that ever moved upon this world,

masked only by what
could be recognized
with physical eyes, blind
to the rest:
Presence,
the gift to the world
was unknown, unspoken,
beyond gleanings of lovers
or mothers or brothers, or others who knew us beyond the cover
of the familiar
like the green that screened out the
rainbow hidden within,
by the cover that we called "You"

May we not waste this
ecstatic mix
believing only in what is shown.

Today or tomorrow the truth is apparent
The truth is a parent
who grieves the illusions of leaves
and cleaves to the other colors,
as real.

I was a leaf that blew west from New England,
moving ever towards sun set,
wishing you would see me as I am on the inside,
and forgive my fluttering failures,
to shed all I've known and grown through,
seeking still a home
in this body, for I will more often be alone
than with you,
and in so being, may I be known.