As If We Should Bleed

We watch the knives of the leaves,
The ones that cling to the trees
Once most of the rest are gone.

To us they look more or less
The same, but there’s not one thing
The same in this world, not one.

A leaf falls. That’s what leaves do.
But they don’t all, not at once.
Why do these stay and not those?

They’re just as much red and gold,
And ones with a tinge of green
Or peach in them may fall first.

There’s rhyme in them, and there’s sense
To the arc of their fall. But,
We don’t want to think too much

On the sharp-edged ones we see
Toss their ridged gold in the winds.
It’s not fair to have to think.