That last leaf I told you about?
She lost the bet, she fell,
invisible hands plucked her from her branch.
Remember the pond I described?
The ice has stilled it—
no wind can bother it now,
it can rest for a season.
The colors have given way
to the next step,
the crystaline white, you know.
It’s the beginning of the slow dance, my love,
when weary partners catch their breath
and lean against each other,
their tango-scuffed shoes
tracing circles in peaceful meditation.
Now is the time to rest, my dear,
before the constellations spin
themselves back to the beginning,
and the spirit of the martyred leaf
reascends to her lofty twig.
Now is the time to rest,
for when the slow dance is done,
a new song is begun.