The Small Ones Leave Us

The small ones leave us, and the leaves are blown.

It doesn’t matter what we do or say,

there’s nothing in the end that we can own.

The facts, of course, are all well-known.

We should have understood that come what may

the small ones leave us, and the leaves are blown.

There’s nothing in the world that’s not on loan:

young children, trees, this house of days.

There’s nothing in the end that we can own.

So why regret that each of them has grown?

Why grieve when grasses turn to hay?

The small ones leave us, and the leaves are blown.

This accidental harvest has been sown

and willy-nilly reaped in its own way.

There’s nothing in the end that we can own.

What little we can make of skin and bone

unsettles us, who watch and sometimes pray

as small ones leave us and the leaves are blown.

There’s nothing in the end that we can own.