“The Leaf:” a poem

The Leaf

For Dale

What is it that holds

the last leaf on the tree,

the redbud, the Judas tree,

whose wood you cannot trust

but whose wisdom whispers beneath

the chaos of life?

Or the maple with its edges

and boldness of being,

with the tilt of the earth

and the waxing moon watching all?

There in the starlight, the single leaf

dances in the bright darkness.

It is not fear that holds

the last leaf on the branch

when all the others rest on the ground

beneath the silent sky.

The maple leaf does not grip

what it has known

for fear of what it does not.

It turns its face

toward the promise of a touch,

waiting for the ineffable moment,

the brush of heaven.

In the end, it is joy

that holds the last leaf

on the sparse tree,

joy at the opportunity

to see it all unfold,

to taste the sweetness of life,

to feel the kiss of a soft breeze

and know, in its body, that release

is the doorway to eternity.

–Stuart Higginbotham