Swaying to the rhythm of the breeze,
The solitary leaf, hung by its stem,
Orange, crinkled, a little naïve,
Though it had lived to see the winter,
And had watched as his brothers left him behind.
It remembered the song of the Nightingale,
As it sung through the night,
Its song heard by few, but still sung with much blithe
Sitting nearby on the very same tree,
Oh, the nostalgia had set in much too clearly.
A home the leaf had, and many friends too,
Rustling in the wind, whispering with trees,
And thinking, just thinking of forgotten memories,
Life was a lively affair with many changes unseen,
But always felt as one season changed to another.
Winter was upon the horizon, waiting to lash down,
A chilling breeze left the solitary leaf astound
But he held on, with all his might,
That someday he may see the dear sunlight,
And be surrounded once again with rustling laughter.
Alas, with a gust of wind, the end had arrived,
His crinkled stem could hang on no longer,
And he was blown into the sky, far out and above,
He knew now what it felt to fly and touch the clouds,
Before he slowly fluttered to the ground, content.