“And the leaves”

And the leaves blow
through the morning
as though the trees
still stood
where we were, once.
And the leaves,
distantly breaking;
cracked at their veins
and torn by the time
it took
to live.

Do you?
Or do I
remember when?
Or do we dream
just to relive?

And the leaves
become merely memory;
a mulch to my mourning;
dew dripping down pressed hands.
But they blow
for what seems
forever and then
and the birds
perch high on the wind.