Leaves


These leaves, their buds bursting onto the scene

leave me with nothing to wish for but the buds

themselves.

The promise of new life, not in some forgotten

way, but new from old, life from death, beginnings

in all their raw and plaintive nakedness;

like a baby crying for life, for breath, for something

to

hold

onto.

And here we stand in this life of ours

looking for something to hold on to, and yet

with so much leaving, and being left; of leaves

from winters past reminding us that these

buds, too, someday will fall

to

the

ground ~

all around us

as every day we leave old ways of thinking, corpsed

ways of feeling and ruined ways of making.

We need not fear these leaves, or of those who leave us

in their wakes; the leave-taking gestures of the heart

will cut us down some day, too, but buds will emerge

all the same, after a winter's discontent, after

the restless peace of dying has worn thin, when finally, we take

leave

ourselves.

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