We have walked, looked at the actual trees: <br />The chestnut leaves wide-open like a hand, <br />The beech leaves bronzing under every breeze, <br />We have felt flowing through our knees <br />As if we were the wind. <br /> <br />We have sat silent when two horses came, <br />Jangling their harness, to mow the long grass. <br />We have sat long and never found a name <br />For this suspension in the heart of flame <br />That does not pass. <br /> <br />We have said nothing; we have parted often, <br />Not looking back, as if departure took <br />An absolute of will--once not again <br />(But this is each day's feat, as when <br />The heart first shook). <br /> <br />Where fervor opens every instant so, <br />There is no instant that is not a curve, <br />And we are always coming as we go; <br />We lean toward the meeting that will show <br />Love's very nerve. <br /> <br />And so exposed (O leaves before the wind!) <br />We bear this flowing fire, forever free, <br />And learn through devious paths to find <br />The whole, the center, and perhaps unbind <br />The mystery <br /> <br />Where there are no roots, only fervent leaves, <br />Nourished on meditations and the air, <br />Where all that comes is also all that leaves, <br />And every hope compassionately lives <br />Close to despair.<br /><br />May Sarton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/leaves-before-the-wind/
