Driving the mountain-scenic roads 
    to the Shenandoah hollow of Orkney Springs,
         the gentle greens of new leaves evoke in me
               tenderness.

I feel drawn into the greens, 
      into the leaves, the trees, the stones.  
Green quivers in the wind, in intimate proximity
     to many repeated expressions of the same leaf. 

My breath is shallow and tender as I enter the leaves. 
     The same as when I pray my emptying prayer. 
          I have to clear the space of cares and illusions to make room
              for the spirit of the leaf,
                  for the mind of God.  I in you; You in me.

Sitting in an Adirondack chair on a long second floor porch, 
   I watch the storm blow in.
      I am eye-level with the leaves. You!  Look at you youthful green leaves now.
         Collected together and fastened tight,
             whipped and ravaged by wind. I am so proud of you -
                  how you bend and furl in unison, your elegant shapes distorted, swept sideways. 

Yet you do not remove. 

You are the branches' and the branches are yours. 
       Between gasps and gales, you settle down,
            with a shudder and a wrinkled pucker and then
                    quickly and happily return to your poised green space
                          next to your brothers.

But, even as you cling and endure now,
I know you have the wisdom to recognize when the light is waning. 
       You know what it signifies:
             that there is a time coming when heavy snow or ice could cover you. 
               Your strong surface could hold it, but the weight
                  would break the branches to which you have been affixed, 
                       the ones that have supported you
                            and given you your green season of warmth, growing and glory.

And so, you begin to fade. 
         You transfer your energy back to the branch, the roots, and
               — gracefully, generously, before the dangers come,
                        while there is still enough time, — you whither. 

One day, when a cold wind whips hard,
         — or, perhaps, if you hold on for many days, it may only take a soft breeze, —
but one day, with your energy sacrificed,
     with a sigh
        and a last breath,
          you will
             surrender,
                and
                  let go.

You'll be carried in your lilting, twirling dance
   to the gutter
     or the ground
        or the pond. 
Here you are no longer leaf but food
   for worms
        and you enrich the soil
           that feeds the tree
           that feeds the branches 
           that lovingly birth you again in Spring.





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