The LAST LEAF in THE GARDEN
I wish I had been there —
the garden stilled around the last
October leaf, nothing to hurry it,
nothing to slow it down
the whole season had come to this:
a holding-on so that the letting-go
might seem to us like chance.
I wish I had been there
to see the wind carry the leaf beyond
the wall, if that is what happened,
Winter, too, content to be late,
an elegant absence at the gate.