Leaf
It doesn’t matter, you know,
Which way you spin,
It’s beautiful all the same,
Whether you twist due to a will within,
Or your dance a habitual refrain.
Sometimes it appears as though
You want to twist free,
Your precarious ropes of captivity,
At others, Hobbes could’ve plotted your path in stealth,
Plan imposed with
God himself.
Are you impaled by design or choice?
If freedom you desire,
Why does every jig and spin seem to serve,
The gust of wanton winds and
Nature’s every other whim unpeturbed?
But if dead to will as I fear,
Why do all your jiggles and flings appear,
To burst like fire and flame from within?
As although by fettled cheer,
You shuffle nature’s hymn sheet and sing.
What are you anyway?
I know you cannot remain a dangling thing,
A puppet that dances on a string; a leaf on a thread,
Unsure to stop or begin; a balloon full of lead,
But twisting, dancing now instead.
Could it be that I see you in myself?
Buffered by forces I can never know,
Marching left-right-left in wind and snow,
Myself at work and you on a bough,
Nowhere to hide; nowhere else to roam,
But I’ve seen your true face and smiled,
Your furnace grows bright tonight for a while.
Sometimes you buzz like a bee,
And others you hang like a bat,
You paddle like a dog and you pounce like a cat,
But whatever you do and whether you hang shy
Tell me once and for all,
Do you have through will or through chore?
