All colors have faded on the weather-worn leaves,
Which, reaching their lives' final stage,
Relinquish their holds on the ancient oak tree,
And succumb to the pressures of age.



A gentle breeze catches them one after one
And tenderly nudges them around
To appear they are tiptoeing about in the air
While they flutter and float to the ground.



A few leaves tenaciously cling to the tree,
Although they are shriveled and dry,
But the others they follow and soon spiral down
To land on the pile where they lie.



The leaves have returned
to the earth whence they came,
Enhancing the soil they have fed
And providing the space in their brief cycle span
For new life to appear in their stead.