Beautifully curling upward,
Cupping droplets that land on its skin
I take my finger, wipe the drop
Leaving a skirmish behind
The autumn leaf is like a heart
Turned toward heaven
Changing colors, singing in its death—
I wonder, Leaf, how many songs have you sung?
I wrap myself in a coat of leaves
Stand under a sheltering tree
Sing with the wind
Go to the one who sings over me
Cup my hands, raise them —
Empty— here they are, God, here I am.
Am I to be like that last leaf,
Stuck on the tree, alone? Never leaving?
And I am answered: “Yes.
You are connected to the vine. Remain.”
Water spills over my hands,
Slips through my fingers.
©Prasanta, October 2015