It hangs, flows, ripples, waves
in its brilliance
and
perfection.
The wind
in its
familiarity,
whispers through.
Stroking.
Teasing.
Mother limb,
her child
she braves.
Yes, the leaf
is her
perfection.
She can't let go.
Its value
her parity.
But
The whispers
begin
their seizing.
Oh! It's caught.
There it goes.
See over there?
Up and over
the hedgerows.
No! Not there.
Look over
by
the clover.
Almost resting.
The gust
in a last breath
sweeps it by
again
to its final
resting place.
A brilliant green
little leaf
at the start
of its
short
life's peak.
Lying there.
Ready for its already
changing face.
Yellow to gold
in its
premature aging.
Life's a thief.
Already
in its Autumn
the leaf
is turning.
Aging.
Old.
Copyright © Deirdre Moignard Miller
