f Grief

If, in a moment of time you think you don't matter, think about this single leaf.

At my wake, in Autumn,
I become carpet of the mountains
kindling sparks of fire,
setting the hills ablaze,
a contorted body,
lusting the land.
I cling to withering bark.
But hired Autumn breezes pluck me from the teeming branch:
And I duel gravity's drag
until the hardening earth
and I collide.
With twisted, upright, scabrous palm
I scratch at healing air
yet crumble into ash
as round a grave I swirl.
Bits of yesterday scattered.
Who I was
not mattered.