The tree stood tall,
eyes lifted to the quiet of sky.
Its branches bore the season's pride—
a crown of leaves, dancing in light.
Among them, one—
a leaf brushed in green and gold,
clung close to its place.
The hush came softly,
a gentle breeze,
barely a whisper,
yet enough.
It loosened.
It let go.
And as the stem slipped from its hold,
the world tilted.
Fear first—sharp and quick—
of falling, of ending,
of the space between belonging
and being alone.
But the breeze curled beneath
like a secret promise,
and suddenly—
flight.
A quiet thrill, a floating wonder,
as if the sky had always been calling.
It spun, slowly, weightless,
and glanced back—
at the branch that once cradled it,
the siblings it played beside,
the early rains, the sunlit hushes,
the laughter of birds.
A pang—
not regret,
but a soft sorrow,
a love for what was!
Then came thought—
of life, of letting go,
of how even in descent
there is a reason.
Even as a fallen leaf,
it would dry, curl,
be swept, be burned,
warm someone’s night,
feed the roots of its mother tree,
become earth again.
It could be a bookmark,
a decorative piece —
reminding of beauty, of quiet change.
It understood.
And when it touched the ground,
it did not break.
It became.
Still, quiet,
yet filled with a knowing—
that even in this silence,
there was music.
Even in the end,
there was offering.
Even in the fall,
there was flight.
And above,
the tree swayed once,
not in mourning—
but in grace.
© Susanta Pattnayak