OK, this is another nonet.
And this is my favorite question that I think either of my kids
has ever asked me, only because it's
incredibly bizarre to have formulated
this as a single question.
The poem is called ''Leaves'', and the question is,
how do leaves fall off the trees,
and how did God build this car?
[LAUGHTER]
Just take a minute with that.
[LAUGHTER]
I remember distinctly driving to the public library
down Main Street in my town when Violet asked that
from the back seat, and thinking, OK.
all right, time out.
That's a lot.
I think what I actually answered is
the first sentence of the poem.
This is "Leaves''.
''The tree stops needing the leaves, so it lets go--
and people built this car.
Someone must have told you what God
made without telling you everything
doesn't mean everything.
There is light, and the light is good,
but some is stoppered inside bulbs manufactured
in Schomburg, heirloom light, the soft incandescence
of last century.
Even the sun will burn out, rattling with bits of broken
filament, but not in your lifetime,
or your children's, children's, children's.
And what of the dark?
You can build it yourself with your own two hands.
Do you remember covering your eyes
to hide, believing you made yourself invisible?
On second thought, the leaves must let go,
or else the tree would keep them''.