A Single Leaf

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 A single leaf surrenders to the air,

A silent spiral down the afternoon,

Not fleeing winter in a rush of despair,

Nor waiting for a distant, promised moon.


It learned the architecture of the branch,

The summer weight, the tension in the grain,

Yet holds no anger when the winds advance

To wash the forest in a colder rain.


We spend our years in barricades of stone,

Inventing walls to keep the seasons out,

Building a fortress where we live alone,

And arming every quiet room with doubt.


We bargain with the clock for extra time,

As if the ticking were a personal decree,

And judge our worth by some imagined climb,

Forgetful of the posture of a tree.


For letting go is not an act of loss,

Nor is the falling something to defeat;

It is the quiet finding of the moss,

The bitter earth made fertile and complete.

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