On the meadows, a few leaves—. Light spilling
—languorously and slowly, with
the slowness snow possesses—through history,
if the leaves are history, if we can imagine
that, where we lie--or are about to. We lie down, yes, we're barely beneath
the tree's leaves,
we watch the light, the way it splits, then comes
through the tree’s canopy; it is
history, it is history passing us
by. And we, spilling through history, too;
along with it— No: we’re
the spectators and the viewers, the watchers
with a handful of dust in our hands. We
gathered—have gathered—to catch
a moment only, expectantly, of history. Of history
in the shape of leaves.
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