A scarlet leaf falls from the tree.
A woman smiles, adhering to tradition.
A common scene, devoid of all surprise?
Or a miracle, unmarred by repetition?
In fact, no falling leaf is ever trite
except to those whom beauty cannot stir.
nor is the reason for the woman’s smile
quite as simple as her lover might infer.
The pathos of an Autumn leaf
drifting to earth with a vegetative sigh
enters her soul with joy transforming grief
through the undimmed vision of an innocent child.
Once the soul is breached, however mild,
is it any wonder that the woman smiles?