I see the passing of my life in a falling leaf,
And I am reminded that each of us have a season.
Where our conception is bore from love,
And our growth,
The result of nurture and drought.
It can be seen, it is remembered in mortality’s rings.
Silent ovals, circular remembrance.
Memory.
Growth.
Such is the season where I ponder upon such things.
When I reap the harvest of life’s gifted wisdom.
And in this realization, I find that the journey is accelerating.
That Gravity’s summation is each man’s mortality.
O that I would catch a youthful breeze,
And be carried on the currents of youth once again,
Carrying with me all that I have learned.
But it cannot be, we stay attached to what we know,
The tree,
The weathered sentinel that taught us.
Our greening,
Our dependency came from their roots
Our history.
And our independence; from the severing of maturity’s stem.
However the leaf’s journey is not that of a sheer vertical fall
It is winding, wandering.
The flitting in and out of happiness and joy,
Of rain soaked, tear filled nights.
Of mortal seasons, both warm and cold.
And passionate summers hot and steaming.
I will at some point find the earth,
My final landing upon familiar ground.
Where I shall lightly lay my umber body down,
And return to the base of the tree that bore me.