THE COURSE OF A PARTICULAR Today the leaves cry, hanging on branches swept by wind. Yet the nothingness of winter becomes a little less. It is stili full of icy shades and shapen snow. The leaves cry... One holds off and merely hears the cry. It is a busy cry, concerning someone else. And though one says that one is part of everything, There is a conflict, there is a resistance involved; And being part is an exertion that declines: One feels the life of that which gives life as it is. The leaves cry. It is not a cry of divine attention, Nor the smoke-drift of puffed-out heroes, nor human cry. It is the cry of leaves that do not transcend themselves, In the absence of fantasia, without meaning more Than they are in the final finding of the air, in the thing Itself, until, at last, the cry concerns no one at all. 94
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