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.