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Fallen, it has, from high up above
It used to be resting on a branch like a dove.
With a step or two, it is at my feet
And I stop to pick up the thin brown leaf.
Brown like the tall, mighty oak trees
That surrounds and shadows me in a canopy
Or the dirt that scatters with each impact
Of wandering people, minds with nature not intact
Faint and withered lines drawn on
Somber, rugose, with the light of hope gone.
It is beautifully shaped, almost a heart,
And I ask it to tell me, when did it start?
Stroking its damaged papery skin
I imagine its insides as if poked by a pin,
With no more humbly working cells
And the cytoplasm breaking to spread like gel.
Small in my fingers, the leaf is frail
And the blow of the wind watched it sail
When, stem grasping, it hung on tight
But, alas, it was made to succumb to the fight
For the weather is changing, the weather is changing!
And the winds have started rearranging.
The leaf has fallen, bent and defeated
While I wonder why its soul has fleeted.
And maybe, I think, it is still alive
If only it could find a way to revive.
A chirp in my mind causes me to halt
Perhaps I could grant it feeling in this drought.
With a crunch of my hands
And its melt into sand,
I wait for a great and powerful breeze
To let the pieces of the leaf run free.