the leaves rattle.
they used to
breathe so softly small
rises and falls with wind song. so full
of moisture,
vitality,
promise so unknowing
of the inevitable
stiffness
but the stiffness has come. a rickety
racket their bodies noisy now
drained
of all moisture bent and hunched
over
when a foot meets
they cry
a crinch-not a woosh- then
instant
breakage.
a shattering of
their bodies.

And i look

to my own leaves — the moisture still there.
the plumpness certain. but every day less. the great
desiccation. the long slow progression to the instant breakage that
returns us to

the soil to
be scooped up
and shot once more
into
a new chance a new bud.

at least we dry knowing this promise.