It seems silly to me, that I may never be here one day...
I can't see myself doing anything different,
Doing anything somewhere else.
The leaves on my oak tree,
Well, they burst out in fervor in spring...
Then linger through summer-
Not clinging to the days but just living them.
They never complain about what tree they're on,
Or what shape or color they are...if a bug has eaten them or not...
They just live.
And then- here is fall...and I'm sitting here writing...
I probably should be doing something else...
Something more important, but I find myself
Admiring the leaves as they fall...
They're only leaves!
Yet, I'm still admiring them...
I'm sitting here on the front porch step looking up at my oak...
The sunlight dancing across my page...
My kitty harassing me...
And I look up at my oak-
The sunlight is filtering through the leaves as they slowly drift
To the ground...carried on a light, warm breeze...
Why can't I just be a leaf?
After they fall from where they've lived their entire lives,
They rest for a few moments on the ground until another breeze
Whips them up and then carries them to another place...
Only to be moved again...
Oh that I were a leaf...
My life would be so much simpler...
*sigh
