The leaves did not ask
whether I mourned the year
or praised its burning.
They loosened quietly
from branches that had carried them
through all the green days,
and the wind, with gentle hands,
turned each one over—
gold, russet, brief flame—
in the late afternoon light.
I stood beneath them
with no proper feeling
ready for the moment.
Not sadness.
Not joy.
Only the strange wish
to keep what cannot stay.
So I watched.
A leaf crossed the sunlight
and vanished into shadow.
Another settled at my feet
like a small, unread letter.
Perhaps that is enough:
to let the beautiful thing pass,
to know a year has gone
without calling it loss,
to hold the scene
not in the hand
but somewhere deeper—
where the wind still moves
through golden air,
and I am standing there,
silent,
remembering.
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