Apropos of nothing at all, except my contemplative mood, I extend the offering of a poem that I composed a while back:

LEAVES

I.

Every spring,
without fail or hesitance,
the trees emerge
from a darkened stage
to perform their magic.
They bow modestly
and with balletic grace
flourish their slender wrists
and nimble fingers,
inviting examination.

Then, imperceptibly—
though the heart grasps
what the eye cannot—
the buds appear,
followed by the leaves,
pale and delicate
as katydid wings.
It is a marvel
that never ceases to quicken
the breath or imagination.

II.

Though the meadow
strewn with wildflowers
may bask in the summer light
and dazzle with color
no kaleidoscope can match,
do not overlook
the wooded verge.
Life abounds on the margins,
in the cool, musky shade
of oak and birch.

Know this:
the leaves are only too happy
to offer their shelter.
In kind,
the birds bestow a melody,
the squirrels, a frolicking dance,
the ants, a tidy parade.
Searching within,
I can only find
these words to give.

III.

With chill fingers
perfumed with smoke,
the wind ruffles
the thinning treetops,
ablaze with aged abandon.
The leaves hold on
for the moment,
memories of warmer days
and visitors gone by
still in their grasp.

In greener times,
the leaves had studied
with care
the flights in their midst,
sensing this moment, now,
when a sharp gust
would scatter them aloft
and, free of all earthly connection,
they would soar like birds
into the gathering dusk.

IV.

Coatless, the trees shiver
beneath a grieving sky.
The uneasy wind,
wanting play,
nips at the fallen leaves,
stirring faint hope
of their awakening.
Secure in its den,
a bear dreams
of wildflowers and birdsong.

In feeble daylight,
shadowed by the echoes
of my footsteps
upon the moldering leaves,
I haunt the ruins
of these woods
and search for meaning.
The pale blossom
of my breath
is all I find.