A leaf falls, and a door opens
that is made of stone.
—Sara Kidder-Lyne (1972—1990)

Such soft winds
carry the small, pale leaves of the persimmon tree
slantwise across the open field.
Slowly they ride out to their most common resting places,
among the cropped grasses where the horses nod.
No one goes out from the porch step now
to find where they land, admired, it seems,
only for the grace of flight and the journey itself,
and not its end. But the wind itself
comes from the resting place of all things,
and it is this
that I praise.