A leaf, I want to

Be.

Not any foliage,

Though.

An orange-yellow

Sheet

Bereft from brilliant

Bough,

Waving, listing,

Wilting

Twisting in the wind,

Slow,

An algae-crimson

Wing

Of once-living soft

Skin,

Fine flesh of the

Forest,

Selfless, sacrificing,

Aimed for the floral

Floor.

Let me lilt, fly, then

Lie

On the bosquen dead

Bed,

Leaving life, sun-soaked,

Green,

To rot in honor of

New birth, Majestic

Spring.

As winter’s covering

Wraps me cold, I lie

Down.

Dry,

Old,

And weep for joy.