Lifecycle. 

The leaf that  

stalls

in the air, for a moment time stands still 

and it isn’t  

falling;

it’s still full and though its colour depends on the angle 

it is vibrant,

its shape still retained, 

soft but defined.

When the wind pushes out from under it,

the leaf

hits the ground;               

moments become months

become a suffocating blanket of white 

and a never-ending chill, 

searching for light.

When the sun’s fingertips brush it again, 

the leaf has become muddy 

and drained, its surface sharpened 

but different, it longs for 

the sky

the breeze that hugged it from every side,

but that will never be again, 

only out of  

reach. 

The ground is lively and vibrant in its own way, 

but it is rigid and finite,

it buries and consumes. 

All that’s left but a mark. 

Floating freely was far less terrifying.