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.