It is remarkable how so few of us
Are privy to so frequent an occurrence
As that of a leaf in the very moment
That it breaks apart
From the branch what nursed it to life.
Quite remarkable a thing it is to see
A leaf in its final hour, rusted with age
And then detach, not like a runaway schoolboy
But with all the heaviness of a lonely lover
And all the lightness of a caressing wind
And all the wisdom of the observant
And all the naivete of a wandering child.
It sails dutifully to its fate, unquestioningly,
Pirouettes about final few sights
And then lain softly on the ground,
Dissolves among the whispers
Of kin long forgotten.