Leaves in the Atrium

At the store where I work there is an atrium

Leaves swirl there in autumn and fill it,

Winding in loops around the tile.

One day I walked out with a broom in the breeze

trying to wash them to the street, but to no avail.

With every stroke of the broom, they returned

Those that left were soon replaced.

Do you ever think about your thoughts?

How they swirl and dance and recycle,

Easy to discern in their colors and forms

But impossible to be rid of until they are gone?

Do you ever wonder how you got here?

I think about these things: the distance between the stars, car insurance, the weight of every jacket in the room, why is he sad today? Who sold you those shoes?

Will I be whole?

Will I always be shuffled in the breeze?

Everything touches and combines only to be touched and recombined again.

And the force of a careful broom stroke is always lost in the power of the wind. 

One day, in the atrium with the broom, I stopped

And I began to laugh. 

Of course those leaves belonged there!

Why else would they be carried by the wind, of all things?