Leaves

I sit beside the mere of sleep
fishing forgetfulness
in its warm shallows,
All the day's fretfulness
lies cast, like an edge of foam
along the shore.
But yet my fish are sly.
This night no worm nor fly
will tempt those cunning shadows to come near.
And in despair
I think of morning and my empty creels.

When suddenly, across the silken mere,
subtle as blown wind–patterns, steals
a familiar music.
It is the noise of leaves
that lift and fall
obedient to slow breakers of the air:
it is the voice of leaves
combing the word ‘summer’
out of the quiet air:
it is the voice of leaves
that eavesdropped at our love,
and from that tranquil passion
in the long grass, learned songs to fashion.

Oh leaves — I thought you dumb.
Ten winters now — yet here you corne,
combing the word ‘summer’
from unremembered air.