The world is still.
The whimsical wind wisks through
The trees. The leaves shiver.
Amber, auburn
Waxy skin flutters,
Mother Nature breathing life into
Their slick, sleek, soft shiny backs.
The trunk tightens its grip on its
Children, a father, clutching to the new life
He has made, just not ready to let them
Fly, but then
A lone leaf, small, blushing
Becomes an orphan amung
Many others, the wind its guide,
Mother Nature, its god
The cold sun, its guardian.

I have always admired the
Bravey of the leaves.
But as I stand under
The Great Oak where I flew away, became an orphan,
Guarded by the sun, guided
By the wind, on a grey November
Morning, the wind is dead,
The sun is imprisonned in the clouds,
Their father wraps his arms around them tightly,
Young, innocent summer green,
The leaves have not fallen.