Zephyr blows hard, clearing their lungs,

blows cold with season and earnestness.

The leaves of autumn, by now crisp

and light of weight, blow yon, then hither,

as if without will, and perhaps the leaves

of autumn are without will, perhaps

with will, the will to be, to have opinion

as to place, one being as fair, or not,

as the next. Hither and yon they blow,

are blown, devoid of life by our measure,

their nature brittle, yet, a leaf in love,

as are we, or hope to be, in their very being,

their gift of self, of leafness, an existence

by motion, by riding Zephyr's wild ride.