One Twisting Leaf Left
Despite the wind, none of the other leaves is twisting.
This one small leaf spins at the end of its branch
Just outside the window,
A visual least cone.
You’d think it would sever its own stem
In that rotation, furious enough, compared to the other stillnesses
To look self-caused.
How, after thousands of turns,
It hasn’t spun itself free,
Or, by another logic, how it perpetuates its freedom
To stay on.
Let it be now, even after weeks.
If it makes us uneasy, that may be its purpose.
Demonstrableness is difficult to picture.
The leaf that spins and never breaks the thread
Of its attachment to the tree its scroll.
-- Jim Dolot