The leaves drop every fall, yes they do.
Their genetic residue, like a million strings into the ground,
marking the thousands fallen before.
The next of kin leaflets, bare the same marks.
Death is no escape from imperfection,
they even slip into the same downward spiral.
One leaflet sighs, apathetic to its fate.
The tree awakens with a startle and shakes.
A hundred leaves fall to their fate.
But these were premature falls.
Leaves green, lush, in their prime.
The tree now less pretty, pays no mind.
The leaflet sighs, looking at its brown spots.
A locust lands and takes out a big chunk.
The tree creaks and sways with time.
The leaflet sighs, “It’s ok for you to let me go”.