The Last Leaf

waits to fall,

waits to snare

her eyes, to carve

the air into bright

diagonals.

It hesitates

in the young wind ...

then suddenly, wonderfully

descends

into the evening of the year.

The tree's last leaf

is blown to her

in the softening hour.

Nothing ends.

The leaf's last light

now plays on her face

with checkered hands that

tumble and turn,

that curve to float

in the filtered sun

from gold to amber, from soon into

late.

She's looking upwards,

listening.

Among the maples -

not a sound.

The sky is cold.

The branches need each other here.

She closes her eyes

in wordless prayer;

and above the silence flinches sing.

The heart wounds mend.

The falling leaf

completes its quest....

Now down autumn of her hair

the shadows blend,

the years finds rest.