in the end

i watch the exodus of the fall leaves from the trees; crispy red, yellow,
orange & brown against the cerulean sky. some leaves simply let go
& drift slowly to the ground among the other fallen leaves. ah, but some
leaves are teased from the silent trees by the busy hands of the wind & whirled
on a great journey, as if on a pilgrimage to holy Mount Kailash.
they spin in spirals, almost describing arcane esoteric glyphs of
power & vision; up, up into the sky & onward beyond my ken.

i ponder on those soaring leaves, taken up through no intention of their
own to sail through the deep mystery into the light. they appear to be
no different from the other leaves that simply fall softly to the earth
& lie there unnoticed. who can say that wind-surfing half the world away
to Kailash is any more auspicious than quietly yielding to ones
destiny without fanfare, & nobly enduring? in the end, Shiva
holds us all to his breast like lost children come home to be cherished at last.
in the end, when it all folds up again, we return to our innocence.