Poetry

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.