Anew

A golden leaf, that has dried and now dips inward,
Dangles loosely from a sparse tree
On the cusp of hibernation, and
Is shown in the waning moments
Of dusk to quiver, as if about to fall.
It had never dawned on him,
This perpetual motion.
Winds from the South kick up,
As the sun rises in the East.
Our golden leaf falls, lands perfectly,
And glides as if helped along by tiny
Little hands unseen.
It had never dawned on him,
This perpetual motion.
Down the calming trickle
Of slow-moving stream,
To where a man fishing for leisure
Has just hooked his first
Catch of the day.
It had never dawned on him,
This perpetual motion.
The fisherman’s line
Now entangled in muck,
As he rips through ground
In a fury of lustful wantonness,
Very much unnerved.
It had never dawned on him,
This perpetual motion.
The canoe leaflet shores
And comes to rest on fisherman’s boot.
It reads like life, perennial.
His heart opens, his breathing calms, and his motions ease,
In knowing she is the dawn of something new, of something perpetual.