A Century Of Leaves

A Century of Leaves
by Ernest Kroll

Not looking for you under their bootsoles,
The people do not find you now, a century gone
By, who wove your leaves for them.
A young dog on the springy green
Knows more the special presence that I mean
Though his master watches and sees nothing.
You said that you could turn and live with animals,
And it is animals, I think, would not have wrecked,
Lacking the world-destroying intellect,
The vision woven of your leaves.
It is animals for whom your meaning lives,
Who are not so clean obtuse
As not to perceive a certain use
Within the world, and use it
Circumspectly, as they would not prefer to lose it.

The open road leads only into space,
By rocket poised against the void.
Riders to the stars might take your leaves along
For guidance elsewhere. This is the wrong
Planet. The love of comrades is a hopeless case.

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