I was once the leaves
which fell by the order of gravity,
who commanded a grouping to lie
upon a yard of glistened blades,
a wayward dewing of hay,
the poor man’s field at play,
waiting to carry the brunt
of the turnaround season.

I was not the grass
because I was the leaves.
I dropped and the blowing moved me
gently through the air, and I was carried,
settled by the many backs of the unseen,
and there I was left to be as I had been,
among those like me, a product of the wind.
I was not comfortable, however, as a leaf
who loathed his change of scenery,
who grew apart from the known place,
the way of living which I had so preferred.

I was many a leaf
simply moving about with the expected
motions by which a leaf was to move,
and instead—in the coming months—
of finding my way closer to heaven
once more, I chose to remain
nearer the soil I had been
and would become again.


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