Some savor taste of light as they drift
slowly through the evening of their lives;
others whoosh in a frenzied dance
of joy, of madness, or, perhaps of fear,
attuned, it seems, to secret, wild rhythms
in the gusty autumn winds.
I wonder, are these leaves content
with their brief shining? weary of the weakness
creeping through their shriveled veins and ready
to let go? or reluctant? sad to leave behind
the chatter of their wind-blown friends,
the playful hide-and-seeking sun,
the stillness of the stars?
I love to watch these golden, scarlet fallings,
each so alone, so, so alone; each carries
emptiness, a fullness too; each seems to hum
a lovely, ancient, tumble of a poem, hymn
to brightly colored life, to dignity of death,
a muted melancholy joy.