The leaf, burnt orange like sunrise
Clings fruitlessly to it's home
upon a frost dusted branch.
It has not seen the ground below
And fears what will become of it.
He remembers the earliest spring
From which he and the others were born
The promise of June.
The glow of the mid day sun
Allowing him to grow vibrant and green.
He thought it forever, that summer.
But all things pass with time.
It's a small change at first,
A light breeze through the branches.
The first signs of fall.
He's not sure when it happened
But he found himself alone
surrounded by his fallen brothers
Rotted brown, crumbled like ash.
He does not wish for that.
But nature is a fiery mother,
Stout and unforgiving
And she, with her forceful wind
Thrusts the leaf from his autumn home.
And in that icy wind he dances
Until he becomes what he fears.
Ash and dust
Like all things become.
But too soon, for him, he thinks.
A season is not enough time.
But even still, the season has passed.
He is dying.
The skies blacken.
So dark, the snow is stark against it
As it falls with a violent fury
Burying the leaf and his brothers
In their wintery grave.
A lifetime passed in a season.
A fraction of time to us.
But how soon we forget
Of the summertime leaves.
How little we care.
When our own cheeks are blanched
from the cold.
We are not endless
Merely seasons that pass.
And we too will one day be buried
Beneath the frost
Beneath even the leaves.
Deep in that dirt
Mother nature will take her revenge.
And we too, unable to stop it.
All things pass with time.