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.