is this the one?

before
the beginning
of again
a certainty
I witness every winter
the end turmoil
of fluttery bright red leaves
that grip the glory vine with
last minute strength
not wanting to be the
last to fall
the inevitable question
wavering in the wind
which leaf will be the last
to take that fateful drop
the last plummet
an infinitesimal crisis
on the emptying vine
that will be solved
by the last leaf's letting go.

---------------

I find I must make note of the end of life with that terrible letting go of the last leaf every year.
I don't want to not make note of it.



*

love, Eaton