Years do odd things to identity. What does it mean to say I am that child in the photograph at Kishamish in 1935? Might as well say I am the shadow of a leaf of the acacia tree felled seventy years ago moving on the page the child reads. Might as well say I am the words she read or the words I wrote in other years, flicker of shade and sunlight as the wind moves through the leaves.
You can find this poem in Ursula K. Le Guin’s final book of poems — So Far So Good
We creep through our loss
Picking up pieces
Of what's left our shattered selves
Sometimes the wind the rain the sun
Comforts us in our weeping
And we are left
Crying and scratching
Hoping in spite
Of what we know in our hearts
As a fifty year-old woman whose intention is to age with grace, this poem resonates with me. And the leaves as the metaphor and the acceptance of age comes across beautifully!