A Withered Leaf

A Withered Leaf

It was once a tiny bud,

cradled in the arms of spring.

Tightly wrapped, delicate, waiting,

its edges curled in slumber,

unaware of the vast sky above

or the gentle breeze whispering through the branches.

Then came warmth—soft and inviting.

The touch of sunlight coaxed it open,

stretching, expanding, breathing for the first time.

Veins spread like tiny rivers,

pulsing with life,

reaching toward the golden light.

It was young, vibrant,

a single emerald in a canopy of green,

dancing with the wind,

bathing in the silver glow of morning dew.

It knew nothing of time,

only the sweetness of the rain

and the comfort of the sturdy branch that held it.

Days passed, then weeks, then months.

The leaf grew broad and strong,

its surface waxed smooth by the summer sun.

It fluttered with every whisper of the breeze,

a silent witness to the world below.

It saw the lovers walking beneath its shade,

hands entwined, laughter spilling like water.

It watched the children run, their small hands

outstretched to catch the sunlight

as it flickered through the leaves.

It listened to the songs of birds at dawn,

the quiet hum of bees in the golden afternoons.

It did not know that time was moving.

It only knew the joy of being.

But time was moving.

One evening, as the sun dipped low,

the air carried a different whisper—

a crispness, a cool touch against its surface.

The leaf trembled, though not from fear,

but from an understanding

as ancient as the tree itself.

The days shortened. The sky burned gold and crimson.

And the leaf, once so deeply green,

began to change.

A hint of yellow crept along its veins,

spreading slowly, beautifully, like ink on parchment.

Then amber, then rust,

until its edges curled inward,

no longer supple, no longer young.

It clung to the branch,

but the grasp was weaker now.

The wind no longer whispered—it pulled.

The sun no longer kissed—it merely lingered.

One night, under a harvest moon,

a strong gust came,

sweeping through the forest like a sigh.

The leaf let go.

For the first time, it was weightless,

floating, drifting, spinning through the air.

It did not fall in fear,

but in grace, in surrender,

relishing the final waltz

before the earth welcomed it home.

It landed softly upon the ground,

among others who had made the same journey.

It felt no sorrow, no regret.

For even in decay, there was purpose.

Even in stillness, there was life.

The rain would come, soft and steady,

breaking it down,

letting it seep into the earth,

where roots would drink deeply of its remains.

And one day, when winter had passed,

when the frost had melted,

when the earth was warm again,

a new bud would form—

small, fragile, waiting.

The cycle would begin again.

A withered leaf is not an end.

It is a whisper of what was,

and a promise of what will be.

Once, it was full of life.

A small bud in the embrace of spring,

Unfurling slowly, tender and bright,

A delicate green against the vast sky.

It swayed with the rhythm of the breeze,

Bathed in the golden kiss of the sun,

Drank deeply from the morning dew,

And whispered secrets with the wind.

Through the long, warm days of summer,

It flourished in the canopy above,

A silent witness to the world below—

The scurrying of ants along the bark,

The songs of birds nesting in the branches,

The laughter of children playing in its shade.

It knew the joy of belonging,

Of being part of something grand—

A single leaf among thousands,

Yet vital in its own way.

It clung to the tree, steadfast and strong,

Nourishing, breathing, growing.

But time does not pause for beauty,

Nor does it wait for sentiment.

The crisp winds of autumn arrived,

Painting the world in gold and crimson.

The leaf felt the change creeping in—

A slow, quiet whisper at first,

Then a deeper knowing, a gentle farewell.

Its once-vivid green deepened into amber,

Edges tinged with the fire of decay.

Its veins, once coursing with life,

Now brittle, etched like a fading map.

It tried to hold on,

But the branch no longer grasped it tight,

And the wind no longer let it stay.

Then came the final release.

It drifted, weightless and free,

Carried by the breath of the season.

No longer tethered, no longer bound—

It danced through the air in slow, graceful arcs,

Turning, spinning, embracing the fall.

It landed softly upon the earth,

Joining others that had fallen before.

Once high above, now part of the soil,

Returning, dissolving, becoming something new.

And though it withered and crumbled,

It was not lost, nor forgotten.

For in its decay, new life would bloom—

In the roots that would drink from its remains,

In the seeds that would sprout come spring,

In the endless, eternal rhythm of life.

A withered leaf is not an ending,

But a quiet beginning in disguise.