An Irreproachable Clemency

Old oak leaves, the wind of spring assays,
quit the boughs and skip like truants,
catching in crocuses,
strangers in the day.

They would hiss
in a brood of winter
tongues where they clung; but cut

and cast, now muted, they run
in silence of an abrupt release,
the more indelible for being late,
having no terms to negotiate.