I find myself doing just that but with marks not words.
The poem accompanied us into The Arboretum. It was a cold morning with no air movement and the temperature was hovering below freezing as a few icicles were forming in the watercolours.
Now and then flurries of leaves would descend as if an understanding across the still cold of the glade triggered release. The trees are uncommonly tall and the leaves had a long descent to make. I witnessed the leaves fall- watching their speed, trajectory, their individual size and shape. It was only when they fell one by one that I had time to really follow the unique descent. Poem and place met for that morning.
Self-portrait with falling leaves
After long stillness
which the wind-chimes felt.
and a rattling house.
Dawn in a shower of colour,
wind ragging the nest of the woods.
What I love though
are the countless differences
words point to, but cannot catch:
a boat rocking on air
an arrow gliding
wings that turn or float or drift
this slow one downing that would love to climb
the other quick as a bird:
a leaf, and another leaf
each itself, but all it seems
one – a fall
that lays open the heart of the wood
this circular flight which seems
for a moment