loosens from
the Oak, full of burnt orange,
crimson and gold. At the point
it does is not known. Then it is blown

by the wind. In the direction
it travels is not known. It
can lay around for days. Be trampled
on, raked and bagged. Picked up

by a girl or boy, and carried home
full of joy. If this is so
is not known. But as spring sings
a new leaf has grown.