to no leaves
this nadir of December—
yet the wind is still playing
in the limbs
of the sycamores.
To witness
just this
on an afternoon street
is stranger than unvarnished truth,
more nourishing
than food or drink.
How lucky, for an instant or two—
to find oneself
simultaneously
standing downstream
from the brutal effusion
of tomorrow's mad mysteries
and sitting on the cap
of the jar
of human history.
At least, so far—at least
til the very next breeze
intercedes
and gratitude's
vast volume
must be cataloged anew.
