Cycle

Yesterday, a leaf fell from my favorite tree, In silence, all alone, I watched it slip and slide, Turning somersaults, drifting, so melodically, Graceful, with nought other passage than downward glide. For one fleet second, thoughts of revolution grew And cast themselves across the windows of my mind, Where fragments of one’s journey weigh for times, untrue, Inciting spasms of questing doubt, life doth blind. We are, each soul of us, mediocre in our way, Endowed with talents born long ago, yesterday. Skills that we erringly believe to be unique Consume other needs, while that special praise we seek. Observed through private mirrors which the mind collects. And colored by the ego that our pride reflects, Images, much gilded by vision clouded, seen, And silvered by the hope that we are as we dream. Mankind, foolish, now wanting, thinking what will be, Wastes his days midst effort veiled by futility. That cycle, which in youth, had its first beginning, Will end in age, with neither losing or winning.