The leaf

A soft, delicate and pale-green bud pops up from a bough and grows into a thick, wide and darkened leaf. 

Its tender stalk makes a sturdy branch in age. And from there sprouts seven other outgrowths – one after the other. 

The leaf outlives storms and droughts, but not its hues. It turns yellow, gold and orange. Its grip fails; it falls to the ground. 

The sun smiles at it. The moist is lost; its weight, light. It browns and it burns. 

The white smoke rises and kisses the leaves still green and clinging. It goes up to the blue and turns into a cloud. 

It rains down drizzles; the leaves wash off dust from its faces. Drops drip; roots sip all. 

It roams in the veins of the trunk and branches; and it exits through the pores of the foliage as pure air.  

It ascends the heavens; and the Big Nose finally breathes it in.