The leaf that falls from the grace of the branch in autumn is not dead.
Its hidden colors have finally been realized as it dances upon the wind’s gust.
It settles upon the pavers for a short rest,then is once more kicked up again within the tempest.
Pivoting, Pirouetting, Wheeling then descending.
A soul happens along and hears the leaf speak in its quiet tone beckoning one last caress.
Within the hand’s gentle embrace the leaf lingers as its adorer outlines each veins trail with wide eyes.
Their time together has passed.
Taking flight once more leaving its lover with wonder at the colors and the grace.
A brush with the idea of dancing with death.
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