Leaf-fall.

The fallen leaves, they dry up and when I place them in my hands, they are drier than anything else. If I take a few leaves and close my fist over them, they are just shattered, I can feel them and I know that once what was a complete form is only tiny fragments of what it was. I think of it on a tree, first just a tender shoot, the soft green of spring and life; then it matures to a beautiful foliage of colors. I hold a falling leaf in my hand and wish I could breathe life into them, but I know I cannot change what is and the cycle of life. It knows it has to fall off invariably to make a carpet below that would be tread upon, and with a sigh lies there knowing it is still useful in some way. A tiny soft sprout of the leaf with the passing of time gracefully turns into different colors of life and then liberates itself in a unique way, sliding down in the breeze as gentle as feathers.

In every fallen leaf is a soul,
that sighs as it falls,
with a pain of letting go,
a yearning in the heart,
gracefully glides down,
it piles up making a tapestry,
in anticipation of a new spring.

© Geetha Paniker