Lost

The leaf has lost her self.
Time has flung her against a tree.
Look how she lays against the trunk--
vanishing into bark, nearly bark
herself, barely there,
only a sketch of tender youth
yet lovely, in a new and scary way,
like a torn-off goose wing;
its natural to pity this--
life wants to go on and on and on
so nothing's sadder even for a leaf
than this terrible want
in a world where nothing lasts,
where all I can do is look back
over my shoulder and weep
at this knowing, like the leaf,
I am earth not heaven bound.