Or Few

It would be interesting to be
One of those leaves the wind could not
Loosen from the twig all winter—

Wind, that ultimate agnostic,
Which the conversant, grounded trees
Talk to as inconclusively

As such crisp, pale, mottled tan leaves,
Long dead already, technically,
Hanging on against frosts and snows,

Talk, not falling until pushed out
By green young things budding in spring.
It would be interesting to be

That sort of a witness, not quite
Part of life, not quite not. Still watch.