Leaves

Leaves

Half a soul

is no soul at all.
How can there be a breast

that brings completion
when my heart leaps forward
at the sight of those lovely leaves

separated from Sycamore by Fall
floating lonely in golden serenity
on glistening rock pool surface?
And I were one with leaves

then complete. No complaints.
And I were one with that granite
or that hawk
or that scent of Black Sage
then I could be one with you.

Or you.
And if you leave or you leave
as she did and she
to find your soul somewhere
not in poet's faith
then once again

will I find the fallen leaves
floating in the canyon.
And they will write a poem
about the drowning pain
of separation.
And I will sing a song
about the miracle of Spring.