© Steve King 2011
All rights reserved
Leaves are fallen in the garden,
gone from lean black branches.
Bright hours are gone, too;
lost amid the equinoctial shade.
You could not count the leaves,
but would recapture hours,
recall them all;
silent as you watch the leaves
run before an autumn wind.
You let the moments slip,
used them to savor yearnings,
distant hopes,
idle revery.
Yet still the pull of yearnings,
yet still, desires unmet;
no moments in your bag
to hold them now.
Now memory is lean,
would feast upon new days
were they at hand;
would gorge upon
the promise of new dreams,
yes, even on the promise,
were there moments for a dream,
were there moments for a promising.
Without leaves on high
there is silence in the wood,
save for the one song:
when winds sweep low,
falling from the mountain,
gathering its chill.
Alone in the garden,
heir to the song,
to vistas of lean black branches—
this song will not scribe a memory,
nor hold a moment rapt for you,
more than may the lean black branches
recall scattered leaves.
