Dialogue Under A Tree

Does the leaf know it’s being watched when it falls?
Gracefully drifting down,
gently, when it touches the water’s face.
A soft caress, gingerly stroking the pond’s cheek.
Connecting without disturbing the image,
preserving the visage of the tree.
Its descent reflects the timeless dignity
of both its host and ward.

Does it concern itself with the thirsty vagabond?
As it worriedly drifts towards his parched lips
desperately drinking from the pond’s edge,
carefully slowing his frantic guzzle to a calm sip?
Motherly instinct, a sympathetic act
towards a lost and wandering soul.
Dabbing the corner of his mouth
with tender frequency,
nudging him to take his time lest he chokes.

No, we do not know their nature.
For in a different light,
they were severed from home
and brought low to their demise.
They fall regardless of audience or witness.

They fall slowly to savor the vista,
one they will only glimpse for a moment.
They make no splash, nor a ripple,
for they are weak and in their death throes.
They look for comfort in a stranger,
because they fear confronting the end alone.

Only at the end, are they granted perspective.
We attribute virtue where it does not dwell.
The world was not created with such nobility in mind.

My need quenched, I briskly brushed the leaf aside.
When the water set, instead of my face,
I beheld the last leaves of summer.  

Dancing on beckoning branches,
waiting their turn to ride the western wind.
Waving, as they take flight toward the blooming dusk.

Then I understood
and continued on.