I am a green leaf
ever sprouting from a healthy tree
I could feel the wind
how it brushes against me
All the poets have noticed
And they talk about me

I am a yellow leaf
about to fall and depart from shady canopy
The sun isn't as kind
to me and my other siblings
All the poets have noticed too
And they wallow about me

I am now a dead leaf
bowing beneath the elements
I am plucked from the things I knew
thrown into despair and loneliness
Only few, and not of them are poets—
some are passersby and wallflowers
They sometimes whisper
And they die with me