Discarded Grief

Look at this leaf. Where did it come from? Stuck in a mud, like a discarded grief from a weeping willow. I like its shape. Follows my hand. Pair it in two and you can make a glove or a puppet doll that says “I love you!” It’s full of wavy hurdles, a caterpillar’s slalom track. Can be frozen, curled or wet, wears all season’s colors like a traffic light. Enjoys to float, especially in waters of Hoogvliet rushes to meet other leaves, while gives a ride to marsh fleas. Once it went disguised, I couldn't recognize it. Dressed in the lost feathers of floating white hearts and undived “quack, quack” pretends to be a Sioux Holy Man. It may come in different sounds too. Like a bandmaster, it orchestrates winter winds in dramatic symphonies. Or, when a thickening fog occupies city parks still dark and tainted from night, you hear a crunchy, cranky sound as it get’s crushed under lover’s heels or sporadic brave joggers, in short sleeves. Dissipated in the air it’ll wait for its turn, to blossom proudly again and stare how spring Sun in the west burns. Hey little leaf you would like to crawl into my pocket like a sneaky thief? I’m lonely too, keep me company in my autumn view.