I wrote about leaves 15 years ago and again last fall.

"Let it die," said Grace in passing. Grace is always passing, quickly, calling over her shoulder as she walks. Our conversations never begin or end, she just picks up in the middle, as always,
as if nothing had happened in between. Maybe nothing has. She was talking about the hanging plant she had given me. It was left one day on my front porch with a cryptic note: "Not much light at night." She meant the hanging cactus, but maybe she meant everything? Anyway, as she passed by today, she said, "Let it die." She might have said it another way, Grace. "If it dies, who cares."
No. "If it dies, it dies." Yes. I thought, "That's cold. Sad." Graceless. But there was a ring to it--peaceful, wise, one who had seen much death. That plant will die. That plant will come back.
That plant will be, hanging. It becomes even as it dies.

I see the leaves some days, walking. Most of the time I see the blur, all the leaves at once brilliant and bright or cold and hunkered down against the wind. Roar. Last week, they fell, falling. There is a comfort.

I saw the leaf this morning. I was alive, awake, unsure. I saw it walking the dog. The dog saw it first, most likely. She was looking at the leaves. I wasn't. I got angry with her. It was cold and she wasn't going fast enough. Not today. It wasn't her. I can't, can't wait right now. My gut drops. I apologize out loud to the dog, to passing cats, to anyone in earshot. She trots on in spite of me. Left, right. Heel, toe. And this leaf. Okay. I saw the death all over it. Greenish, mostly, yellow and brown, devouring. A slow, slow crush. Alive and dead at the same time. (The box is cracked open a peek. Does it die because we look?). Right this minute both. So are we. All of it at once. We learn it all to undo, to start fresh. But we don't know that. To begin with. Leave you hanging.

What am I doing right now? Left foot crossed over right, head in hand sideways. Sighing.
I am here--dead or alive. And. Goddammit. Sly smile. Still in there somewhere. Light waning,
sky. A hint of blue in the white. A kind of blank grey. An absence. Dying trees all over my windows. Fragile yellow. "It's Okay" green. I'm going, look after me. Tips of branches alone against the elements. Stripped, nothing left to hide. It's all been said. Keep whatever you need for spring, but only what you need.