Angels collect us when we die

Angels collect us when we die

everyone’s name is written on a leaf in heaven.

When that leaf falls to the ground,

an angel comes and carries the soul away.

Isn’t this like autumn, all year long—

a quiet rain of lives descending,

soft as whispers, sudden as storms?

what if someone breaks a leaf from the tree?

Is that a life stolen,

a heart silenced before its time,

a thread cut too soon?

If a leaf drifts into water,

does a soul slip beneath the surface,

swallowed by silent depths,

lost in the ripples of fate?

Tell me, is this true?

Is the wind a messenger,

the rain a mourner,

the sun a silent witness to the falling?

Or perhaps the tree itself weeps,

shedding its leaves not from fate

but from sorrow,

each drop of sap a silent cry.

And when a leaf falls in stillness,

does the earth cradle it softly,

whispering:

You were here. You mattered.