Urban Fall

The last leaf leaves the tree as the first came,
not with trunk-cracking spasm, gust-thick in force,
nor the dip and sway of bough-bending breeze,
but with . . . oh, not very much: an air’s puff,
a thin shiver of life trembling at twig’s end.

I wait, watching almost nothing, until
the last leaf’s stem, too sere to hold, lets go
the twig . . . or is let go; watch it waft self and leaf
soundlessly down the stem of me, who walks
on concrete, wafts nowhere. I crush last leaves.