A leaf falls, and a door opens
that is made of stone.
— Sarah Kidder-Lyne (1972-1990)
Such soft winds
carry the small, pale leaves of the persimmon tree
slant-wise across the open field. Slowly
they ride out to their most common resting places,
among cropped grasses where the horses nod.
No one goes out from the porch step now
to find where they land, admired, it seems,
only for the grace of flight and the journey itself,
and not its end. But the wind itself comes
from the resting place of all things,
and it is this
that I praise.
© The Estate of Sandford Lyne