LEAF

On a wooded path
late summer's
first fallen leaves
softly lay;
and careful was I
upon on them
not to tread.

My gaze found one
far fairer than the rest
in a hollow, wet
with tears
from the morning's rain.
Stooping, I took it,
no longer green with youth,
yet glowing;
glorious
in fall's golden palette.

Separated
too early perhaps
from the branch where
at its beginning
it nourished another;
now in peril
of feet less careful
and the parching sun
having their way.

So fair it was
that for the brief moment
it lay in my hands
an unremarkable day
became remarkable;
I took it to my breast
and felt the warmth
of its tears.

But soon I knew,
and all too soon,
and how I knew I could not tell
the leaf belonged
not to me
but to my path.
So stooping once more
silently
I returned it
safely
to higher ground.
Where another more like it,
or, more to its liking,
would one day find.

My heart,
that place so estranged from reason
but ever full,
was silent.
Reason compelled
no word 
or plea.

Of such expressions
the leaf knew 
little,
and cared
less.

The path and woods
bade me 
continue.