If the dance of a leaf in the wind
is not a woman in disguise,
then I am not a man
and know nothing of holiness.
If the wind is not a plea
to change my ways,
the sap of maple
not an expression of mother’s milk,
the autumn rain
not a lament for Adam;
if papers dropped by strangers
are only papers,
and not reminders,
and peeling paint not portent;
if dreams are only dreams,
and not stories my father neglected,
what’ll I do.