From whence does the Wind blow the Leaf,
These same air particles and atoms,
What stories do they know, what grief?
Did they once portend a phantom?
And who am I to them?
A villain, a stranger, hated uncle?
“Tarry not,” says the Leaf from its stem,
Flexing its green curved muscle.
“They are the guest and you the lord,
They're worried what you think of them,
There is no need to draw your sword,
They think your heart a precious gem.”
The Leaf makes a good point,
I keep on the narrow sidewalk ahead,
With each breath of air I anoint,
And with each step, this earth I wed.
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