Out of Seasons
by John Grey
What the weather can do to one leaf,
if I had the time to track.
How, under cover of light, the sun sears.
When, inflating with color,
it saps veings dry.
How in the mood for wind, for cold,
it sweeps them nowhere faster.
And then it shrinks life to buds,
to repetition, as if “here we go again”
is a reson to wince, to love.
How is the leaf were crumpled in your hand
I wouldn’t recodnize the pieces,
too full of the ages of man
as if that mattered.
And if it was sewed into you
by my extravagant touch,
it would just sprout myth and shadow,
nothing as solid
as what disappears before the eyes.
And if I had the time to track,
I would listen to its story
there, at the point of death,
when it had no story.
