Poetry

What a crushed leaf reveals about time and us When I stepped onto a dry leaf on the pavement,  it did not protest.  It did not plead, did not cry  for one more season at least. It simply yielded —  a soft, brittle, crunching soundunder my feet, like a sentence ending in gibberish without explanation. Once, it had held sunlight — chlorophyll? in its green palms. Once, rain had trusted it to hold its drops, Birds once rested on its living edge. Now it lay where paths cross, whe