Days of Leaves

I want to chase that cloud and that bright star.
I want the days back,
but they fly away like leaves
swirl away from the trees in the autumn winds.
And who ever knows it in their youth?
Who ever reasons it out in time?
Was there ever a youth that wise,
who knew to love the day soley for what it was,
to live in that moment as though it were a ray of sunlight?
Why does the knowing always work backwards?
~~

Tonya Willman ©2010