On the wind, the leaves come down like birds
Flocking to a lawn where the grass is green and bent
As though, like the birds, they will find in the mud traces
A source of life that will help them through till spring.

But they cling to the mud, and the rain beats hard upon them.
The lime leaves slowly crumble; the leathery plane leaves
Dance on their points for a while, then glide, then drop.
The grass is still. With leaves’ help, it will see the spring.