The Point of Leaves


Somehow this tiny organism is swept
Swept away with a gust of late October wind
Picked off a tree like a cherry
It floats and twirls
Unpredictable flight paths
Its sharp edges soar
Soar for their ten seconds of glory
The peak of its existence
Then, lay motionless in a mound
A mound with their kin
Waiting, waiting until raked away
Raked to the road
Run over and crushed
Disappears in winter and forgotten

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