Leaves the Leaves

I thought once how Theocritus had sung

Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,

Who each one in a gracious hand appears

To bear a gift for mortals, old or young.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, “Sonnets from the Portugese”

I knocked many times,

but God would not let me enter.

It was the right decision.

I was not ready to see a wish

curl into little wisps of light

and come true. I was not ready

to see the tiny knuckles of your hand

reach toward mine, or hear your voice

say my name the way the wind

leaves the leaves

before you are gone.