Old Leaves of Paper

A staked sapling outside the window leads
A contradictory existence now,
In autumn, its mottled leaves yellowing,

As ancient, more or less, as any leaves,
Dangling and falling from a silver trunk
That has finished only a small fraction

Of its possible life. Seems a lesson
Might be had here—something to do about
The meaning of youth, being young at heart,

Possibly a paradox, a sermon,
The sort of thing the nineteenth-century
Was so good at. Old leaves, good wood, young bark.