I would shed these leaves one after the other
From the stem, and each one fall
To my feet while I mutter sonorously:
“She loves me, she loves me not.”
Even when I’m done shedding each leaf
Off the tree, my feet covered in heaps
Of dead leaves, there is still no telling
That you will return back to me
Nothing in life stays certain
Not even the leaves on this tree.
PhilOyok 