How Leaf We Are

There is a poem I quite like. Though it is dark, I find it refreshing.

How leaf we are,
At first, all furled in separateness,
Peeping out with little vanities and hopes, also vanity;
Perhaps the last vanity, holding us to that green world,
Our life shall be; believing ourselves,
So individual, we all reach, being identical,
Shall the prodigal gardener weep?

How leaf we are,
At last, all seared in brittleness,
curled up with tiny tears and hurts, also fears;
Perhaps the last fear tethering us to that dry twig
our life's become,
then knowing that we are enumerable we fall,
being expendable, all,
The gardener is blind,
He will not sweep.

How leaf we are,
Like waves we do become;
First urged, then merged.

That gardener is a fisherman,
That fisherman is asleep.

-Anon