(I first wrote this when I was around 13 or 14. It’s a bit disorienting to think that I was of the mind to write something like this, but this oldie is still a goodie.)

These green leaves

In their impetuous youth

Would spend their year of life

On watching humans live

The lives they never could

It was a wonder seeing them

Them, showing off their longevity

To choose their ways, to choose their fates

To weave their strings of life themselves

When leaves are blown adrift in wind

It’s helpless to resist, they say

In spring they envy cherry blossoms too

Off white small petals that would die in weeks

But even if it sounds too crazy, know

That blossoms rave so bravely in death

That their plight’s much more celebrated, cared

And have the simple leaves been loved before?

For leaves, they’re doomed

For brevity

For nothing in

Their future but

Repeating their

Colossal faults

Till end 

Then they’re

Tumbling

Down to

Earth

Bobbing and weaving and dancing through the air

Trying to be flames

With their brittle, brown carcass

To shine before the end

To roots centuries old

Bony and formal and cold

That leaves had always flown above before

They were weaving for a new fate.

But now it lies dead.

All because of what they were.

Not even to see the crescendo of freeze.