See that orange dust, being picked up by the wind
With crusts of brown catching on the edges of your shoes
Do you see the pieces of wood, dryly speckled across the pavement
while others get carried off by the ants up the side of the bench
No, you probably don't.
Because you are looking up, at the vibrant green fronds
The leaves that span their arms wide to embrace the sun
The new shoots that crawl and creep along the trees edges
Perhaps a blossom or two, breathing for the first time
And the scent that lingers in your senses and heart
And you smile at them. Yes you smile.
And offer them a caress for those closer to the ground.
Maybe pick up a freshly fallen leaf with colours
to bask in and share later with your 5 year old niece.
Or place in the middle pages of your travel diary
as you soak in the experience of the new
Then, when theres not much else to do,
you may on occasion admire the somewhat gone
The amusing and sweet pattern of the holes
that have torn through the turning yellow and brown
Maybe you'll trace around it with your fingers
Reflecting on how even death can be beautiful.
Yes, I too have seen these things. And picked them up myself.
Carried and disposed of, during a meandering thought.
Yet, very seldom. In fact, I have yet to see it.
Will anyone try and piece back together
The leaf that has become apart
translucent and scattered.
And still.
With no more of anything left to give.
The pieces now trembling with complete vulnerability
With no will and no colour.
Its disappearance will not be noticed
by anything
other than the silence.