A leaf falls into the shadow of a tree
by the side of a road. All the little things
we leave behind, past. Shadows
of leaves shaking in wind, shadow of a tree.
***
Hour after hour I stood there, shaking
hands, tried to listen. Flowers everywhere
daisies, lilies. I can recall only stillness,
the stillness of his face, his hands folded.
***
Every drop of rain falls by itself
and still we speak of storms
as seasons meander and never come
into anything other than themselves.
***
A photographer, in his entire life,
hardly gets more than twenty minutes
on film—fractions of fractions of seconds
at a time. What falls between shots:
***
lost, the light between shadows
of untold leaves we see as a tree.