Dancing, prancing, floating leaves excite my sight
Cascading down in wet sheets like chunky rain.
Some fall singly, each one a summer's death knell.
How is this, year after year, they die as they appear?
As at my feet they fall, I pick up one up to study it,
Searching for the secret of its splendorous attraction.
Why is a dead plant part lovely, and so obvious?
Who was its beauty meant to attract and why?
Even though eventually brown, and crunched underfoot
So like the oncoming snow, sticking to my rubber boots
The same way, each one is a microcosmic pageant's
Reflection why in the world do they show off this way?
Russet, orange, yellow as the sun, neither blue nor pink,
They twirl about in midair defiant of their yearly demise.
I envy their colors, dreaming of a death like this for me.
What if I myself radiated the patterns of a dying leaf?
I'd spin around in sophisticated lazy circles as I expired,
Hurling my body gently to the ground in so many colors
And styles that God would have to keep me on Earth,
'Til I crisped brown enough on my edges to finally leave.
By: Karen Cole Peralta
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