Sometimes I can hear it,
the voice of a fallen leaf
lost to the wind.
Its gallant effort to become apparent
as if it was more then just one of the rest.
It says, "Let your footsteps be kind
and not trample my body,"
This earth is too fleeting.
I'm sure it would think.
To be whole and unpressed,
Not without burden
A small voice that descends
*soft like the drop of a pin.
"I can hear you," I whisper
among all these branches
They don't speak like they used too.
I'm sure the fallen would think.