The Leaf

By Justine C. Tajonera

I experience
the leaf,
the deadness
of it,
the meaning
of death,
the end
of meaning,
nothing.
I experience
how it lies
among pebbles,
how it is
brown,
how it is everything
and just
a leaf,
and all my
grief,
and the sound
of a silent
afternoon.
I am not
the leaf.
I am not
the pebbles
holding up
the leaf.
I mean
nothing
by this.
I let this
all go,
with a sigh,
like a wind
that lifts up
the meaningless
leaf.