Fall

Hands full of sticks Pockets full of stones You look up at the autumn sky. Wisps of golden clouds adrift, Aimless. This forest’s been painted red. A single leaf hangs loose on a high branch. Presently, A strong gust of wind tears it off the branch. It starts to fall. Slow. Circling. Happy. Like it didn’t know it was falling. Like all the while it was up there, It wanted to fall. And that it knows the ground will catch it when it falls. And with the fall, Some way off where you stand, Completion. Home-coming. Belonging. And suddenly, you wish to fall.