Leaves the Leaves
I thought once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, “Sonnets from the Portugese”
I knocked many times,
but God would not let me enter.
It was the right decision.
I was not ready to see a wish
curl into little wisps of light
and come true. I was not ready
to see the tiny knuckles of your hand
reach toward mine, or hear your voice
say my name the way the wind
leaves the leaves
before you are gone.