Leaves

They are called leaves

because they do.

Shading through green

then changing hue.

Urged by light

or a chill in the bone,

they let go,

leave home.

For brief moments

sail in the air

without hope,

without care.

Driven by the wind

they seem dead,

aspen yellow,

maple red.

They seem dead

and decay.

The soil reclaims them

to live next May.

Author: mastout

I'm a writer and poet who dabbles in photography. I'm interested in many things and love to learn new stuff. View all posts by mastout