I found a big bowl of leaves soaking in water next to the fireplace at Carlos Ramirez’s home. Some were brown with hints of red, some yellow green; the leaves were collected from the magnolia trees in his Mission neighborhood. The fall colors and clean water added a playful and soothing element in the living room, a reflection of the poet’s personality.
“I write poems on the leaves after I wash and dry them.” Carlos told me with twinkle in his eyes. He showed me the finished product, stacked together loosely and wrapped in a plastic bag.
“They are mostly haikus. Some are just thoughts. I use a brush tip pen.” His childlike smile spread over his great white beard.
We read them, leaf by leaf.
