Slowly

I would capture the leaves

As they fall

To save them the hard fate

Of touching a cold

Unwelcoming earth

I am ridiculous.

Why should I seek to stop such things?

Anyway

The unwelcoming earth

Refuses to take the leaves

The leaves must make their way inside

Slowly,

In time

With their own disintegration.

That is progress. Growth.

It is also letting go. Dying.

It is the only way.

What's That Like?

Whenever I find an oyster shell

Soft as talcum and smooth as a bone

I wonder what it's like 

To be held by the sea

In its ceaseless, rhythmic

Push and pull of wave after wave

Then cast down to the floor

To the coarse bottom, the darkness, the mystery

To lose a little bit of itself

Before the sea raises it to the surface again

To cast it onto the beach

As iridescent and smooth 

As a pearl.

No corners, no edges

No ugliness

And I wonder how long it took

To arrive at this state of complete grace.

I used to keep such shells.

Now I toss them back

As I contemplate forever.

What's it like

To be the shell?

That's more than enough to think about.