It will be the leaves,
And the boles and the bark and the domed sky
Grey against winter boughs, bracket-fungi,
Swollen twigs, puffed catkins, buds as various
As a mad artist’s palette — precarious
Nuts and fruit at the utmost top of the tree,
And bracts, and the flowers, of course. But mostly,
It will be the leaves.
And lovers and friends,
Never as many as we’d like to pretend,
But each a beacon of sorts — and in the end
The thing that made life more than marching sore
Across a world where we grew rich (or poor)
And talked and rutted, boasted, stole a kiss,
Fled, led, won or lost. Yes, mostly I’ll miss
Lovers and friends.