How leaf we are
At first, all furled in separateness:
Peeping out with little vanities and hopes, also vanity;
Perhaps the last vanity, holding us to that green word
Out life shall be; believing ourselves
So individual, we all reach, being identical.
Shall the prodigal gardener weep?
How leaf we are;
At last, all seared in brittleness
Curled up with tiny fears and hurts, also fears:
Perhaps the last fear, tethering us to that dry twig
Our life's become; then knowing that we are
Enumerable, we fall, being expendable, all.
How leaf we are
Like waves we do become; first urged, then merged.
That gardener is a fisherman;
That fisherman's asleep.
-Ronald Duncan, 1961 (no 5 from The Solitudes)-
