Leaving

I hear the fairies dancing

in the wind among the trees,

this autumn wind filled with scraps of crimson and gold, gentle wisps of color wafting down as if in a dance, slow pirouettes ending in demi pliés on blades of grass glowing green as if for the last time, ever.

A silence follows the dance

which needs nor seeks applause

for the necessary act of falling gracefully, eschews the sounds

of false flattery crafted on a knife’s edge,

knows what it seeks and who is expected to pay—that solid trunk, the broken branch, the twigs and bark trampled underfoot. The leaves remember who held them close

until the greenness of innocence fell away, gently releasing them in a technicolor flourish, allowing them to find their own way back to earth

with only the wind of forgotten promises to lift them up for the briefest of moments

to fully behold the entire tree

and maybe forgive it for being capable of more than leaving.