Leaves

Look from the high window, with the eye of wonder,
Where the sun roars over, and the moon dips under,
An aspiring creature stands, silhouetted with a tree,
With scant leaves, and still as a statue of a running man,

They hung against each swipe of a storm, branches bent,
Today is brushed with sun. The leaves are warm.
As I picked one that had earlier skimmed the air,
It lay, with borrowed shining on my winter hand,
When will the pride of these leaves end?
Persistence is their nature, even as they are undone,
From their branches, they fall with pride.

It is a part of eternity, for its end and beginning,
Belong to the end and beginning of all things,
Yesterday, they swayed in chorus, to the windy rhythm,
And today, ease into the sight of no one, yet add a touch,
So natural, so beautiful, to the ground that is strangled,
By their own brotherly roots, who fed them once,
I expect nothing, remember nothing, and come to them,
Brotherhood of eye and leaf, inspires me,
Leaving me unafraid in the sight of others,
To set my mind free, and seek the light of pride,
That is my own, not mocked by this world,
Lords of pride! I now know that I am worthy,
No rival’s air shall choke me further, no more broken times,
I’ve seen my strength, I smile,

Good times come in small proportions.
And in short measures, life may perfect be.

~ by oelinimeg on November 17, 2006.