The Scent of a Leaf

Allow there to be nothing.
No words. No sound. No conjured
Arrangements as string under boughs.

Allow there at last one crescendoed silence
To sing the sun elastic,
To crack the black heel of night
As a cymbal of love
And patient upheaval.

The subduction of plate is silent,
Much as the heart,
Bent beneath the dull weight
Of simply being breaks.

We will all know loss,
In our time, and in our time
We will know the grief of joy
Or the joy of grief,
And find ourselves mute
Before the scent of a leaf.

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