Out my window
through glass smudged with diminutive hand prints
Stands a congregation of trees undressing.
When the Autumn wind blows its breath of brisk air,
The trees do a wiggle, wiggle
and disrobe a leaf or two.
Down they fall slowly, taking their sweet time —
As if realizing this is their final encore.
That is, until, a 3-year-old finds them
And picks one up, thin and frail from the yellow pile
discarded like dirty clothes on the bathroom floor.
Then the leaves — they live again!
in a crown
or a wreath
or a pile to jump
And really — have they seen a better day?
From outfitting a tree
to adorning the top of a head full of curls.
Rejoice, oh leaves!
You are not being discarded;
Now you live on as the crowning jewel
in a land as beautiful and vast as the forest
in the wondrous mind of a child.