To Which Wave Do You Grant the Trough?

Silk winds wisp the dense spring mists,
And the long dead grass smells green.

If there’s a scent of the fall
From the soil, it must be leaves.

Life likes to start from its ends;
That is, if you think life ends.

Lives end in lives, and the wind
Bears fresh spoor, and here we are

Back in a spring in the cliffs,
Damp earth, new grass, and small leaves.