Empty Hands

No tree
keeps its fallen leaves.

It lets the wind
misremember them.

By spring,
even the branches
have stopped counting.

Only we

arrive at tomorrow
with our yesterdays
buttoned inside our coats,

wondering
why every season
feels so heavy.

A bird lands.

The branch bends,
then forgets.

Not because
nothing happened,

but because
holding every moment
would break the song.

Perhaps peace
has never been
the absence of sorrow.

Perhaps it is simply

knowing
which things
were never yours
to carry.

Evening gathers
without collecting
the light it replaces.

The stars
never apologize
for arriving late.

Somewhere,

without asking permission,

the first leaf
lets go.