brown leaf
I Take Note
Byron Hoot

Now, there is gold on the ground,
the curled, foiled beauty of shapes
no hand can make, the veined
artistry of fallen leaves in the perfection
of release from trees.  There’s a grace
in knowing how to let go, a two-step
act of letting go and going to
and in-between the air, some call
the winds of destiny.  A word not too
strong for falling.  A word as true
as it has ever been.  And the gold
that turns to decay to feed again
the trees and the leaves and the
falling.  I take note of what I see.