And the old leaf turns and withered
flies at last unlike the
winged seed to die and lie
forevermore
Turning as the seasons do
a living green to crimson hue
no more to breathe or
catch the sun now
merely a messenger that
winter has begun
the old leaf will bathe
in rain and snow
be warmed by sunlight
now with nowhere else to go
it will be food
for worm and germ and seed
and disappear
be seen no more
another leaf to feed
what
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