You call me to rest.

I watch the swimming shadows 
of green leaves against orange
sunlight—but I must remember too
the fall, how I saw all this and did
not choose it. I obey, because my
heart is weary as the branches
bending through my backyard sun,
waiting for the next storm to cut
them down once and for all. 
Does the darkness not make
the beauty of the shadow?
The poems write themselves.