(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.
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