Each barge on the river easily twos
a mighty wake,
a giant oak-leaf of gray lights
on duller gray;
and behind it real leaves are floating by,
down to the sea.
Mercury-veins on the giant leaves,
the ripples, make
for the sides of the quai, to extinguish themselves
against the walls
as softly as falling-stars come to their ends
at a point in the sky.
And throngs of small leaves, real leaves, trailing them
go drifting by
to disappear as modestly down the sea’s
dissolving halls.
We stand as still as stones to watch
the leaves and ripples
while light and nervous water hold
their interview.
“If what we see could forget us half as easily,”
I want to tell you,
“as it does itself - but for life we’ll not be rid
of the leaves’ fossils.”
[Elizabeth Bishop]
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