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.