Leaf

A tap at the window indicates life.
One hair of an oak
catches the wind,
makes a sound it could never hope to make.

The different to grass green,
stretched with veins receiving sap
without a heart.

The wind presses it
against the glass,
the surface tension
of a drop of rain
is broken,
the water trickles
for gravity.

I watch as the wind eases,
the branch waves back;
the oak slowly undresses
for winter,
the leaf is cast.

It will not perish
for a while,
will keep its burnished smile,
resting in the thirsty grass
as life dries out
to mould or dust.

A beautiful defiance;
I should pick it up,
as Russian children do
and weave it, with its cousins,
for a headdress,
salvaged for a celebration.

The leaf will die
the tree continues;
I stand and watch in envy
somewhere between the two.