A leaf in autumn watches it fellows fly, fly away and wonders where it shall fall. As they land jobs, or seed families, planting trees, my leaf gazes solemnly. The wind brushes by, soft as kissing butterflies, and still my leaf sticks on branches thick, rooted. When doth its chance come nigh, that it may join to spinning life or journey lands far and wide, afore it lose all leaves beside?
A baby bird must someday try - else married to the words, at least invent a life. And on these winds and in these times, I sigh and s'pose, I'm married to the words.
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