You who have been the single leaf that won't stop tossing

Unafraid is what we were, I think, and then afraid,
though it mostly seemed otherwise. I opened my eyes,
I saw, I closed, I shut them.
                                            The usual morning glories
twist up through banks of gone-wild-by-now holly;
crickets for song, morphos for their glamour, which
is quiet―blue, and quiet ...

You: the dark that nothing, not even the light, displaces.
You who have been the single leaf that
won't stop tossing,
among the others.
For you.

[Carl Phillips {1959- }, 'Silverchest', from Silverchest: poems]