The leaf,
Having given life,
Now gives it up,
Releasing a tenuous grasp
On that which it sustained
For a season or so.
Gravity takes hold,
As does the breeze,
And the amber ember
Floats slowly and serenely downward.
Then—just as the dear ground
Is within reach—
An ominous rumbling
Briefly precedes
A chill, silver rush.
Whipping the leaf upwards,
Whisking it away,
Thrashing it along,
Tossing it to and fro,
Intermingled with leaves of all sorts
And various refuse along the way
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