My hand drifts downward,
a summer leaf
escaping from the confines
of the branch.

It flies elated, moved
by the breezes for a moment, apart
from anything, flush with
photosynthesis, infused with
life and free.

The moment is a life time.

it has forever, once fallen,
to reflect.

But reflection lasts as long as restlessness abates
and yearning returns, and aching,
longing inflames the limbs;

when its bleak and humid,
bleary sun beating down the spirits,
suffocating, smothering the fleeting sense
of hope that flickers;

when the worn out car, cankered, rusty,
a friend to the peeling picket fence patched
with chain link,
unforgiving and rough, yawns,
weeds scratching unabashedly
at its overexposed private parts,
vulgar and unkempt
does it cringe,

and look back at the branch,
once an anchor, a home, and feel again to be a part of it?

Does sadness drench its frail body?
Stung by awareness that
long before the living leaves fall,
it will be muddied, half eaten,
fading into the ground?
Where is solace for the leaf who escapes the branch?