(You were, today, you said, like scattered leaves on a fall wind. The ground moves beneath you and you cannot choose where you fall, or where you land. Have faith that you will land where you ought.)
torn and tossed,
the papery leaves
fly over the ground
scampering and unsettled,
grasping at ground which
will not reach out in return.
they remember summer
greening stems
and unfurled veins
which drank in the sun
like wine,
and the sun, in return
cast her light through them
and lit the world
as if a cathedral of green
rootless now
they flutter
like all the winged things
which once rested upon them
and laid their eggs,
whose children walked
with sticky feet,
noisily munching,
an annoyance, however brief,
before they repelled on silken string,
or cocooned before taking flight.
despairing
at the fading wind
they lie and look up at the sky
and their bestemmed brethren
with longing and sorrow.
but then
a face, curious,
peeks down
and carefully stares
– as if seeing each leaf
on its own terms –
and lifts them,
marveling at the lines of red,
the creep of golden yellow,
and the stems turned to copper.
She measures them –
they are larger than her hand! –
then lifts them toward the sun
where they glow like soft fire
behind her pale fingers.
Some she saves to
press in her book,
but the others –
they are thrown into the air –
handful after handful,
flying and falling
from the ground
to the sky and back.
The trees,
greening with envy,
look on
as leaves of red and gold
rain down and down
over her dancing
and laughter
as there,
beneath her feet,
fallen
they shine.