Upon walking slowly from my despair,
I saw a turn’ed leaf.
Amongst the others, dark and rounded,
This one sat soundly,
Inverted,
Displaying bones and veins
For all to see.
Vulnerability is not the culprit
it’s been made out to be,
For the leaves seemed natural;
In chorus, their colored-symphony.
Were they all upright,
Green and bright in shining glory,
One might think it a picture
From a children’s story.
I sigh,
Gazing to the sky as I walk,
Farther, and farther away,
To felids unknown, but surely shown,
To my heart, I say,
“Let thyself be turned.”