Standing toe to death a single maple leaf taps the granite face then disappears with the wind whose memory remains, brushes against our shirtsleeves as if waking from the cloth a sleeping vision whispering, “Move on now” in tones too gentle to be feared. If the imagination enlivens (as the chill of vanishing wind divides the invisible air between us) the lamp of earth to lighten our way, may it please the meaning of things that our lives windward travel in search of that leaf’s touch.
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