A leaf does not fall.
It remembers the art of letting go.
First comes the slow severance,
the stem loosening like a sigh,
green bruising into amber,
life rewriting itself into silence.
The wind arrives not as an enemy
but as a midwife of change.
It carries the leaf downward,
a dancer released from gravity’s grief.
Every spin is a reflection,
every tremor a translation
of what it means to move on.
And when it touches ground,
it is not the end.
The soil opens its arms like an old friend,
and the leaf whispers to the root,
Everything that falls
teaches the earth how to hold again.
November, 2025
