I am sitting in a still room,
A fallen leaf,
In my lap.
I am reliving memories,
Which are not mine.
A lifetime of only one season,
From a tree two hundred years old.
One of a hundred thousand leaves,
No two the same,
Each with a thousand memories,
Remembering the one with the most light.
No one was expecting a memorial.
Certainly not the leaf.
The leaf no longer cares.
The tree is not shedding any tears.
I have a paintbrush and I have a hand with which to paint.
Time is not threatening me.
There is a place which is full of leaves,
Littered with leaves, leaf litter,
Paint and glue and sometimes glitter.
Inside a tiny, shiny box, inside the spider’s web.
“Click here to visit other leaves,” the little spider said.
A wink and a trial. Go the extra mile.
A smile is the only thing worth while.
Am I the only one who knows,
That nothing that’s here is going to last,
And, soon there’ll be nothing left but the past?